


Camaraderie

by GildedOrchid



Series: Camaraderie [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: War for Cybertron
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GildedOrchid/pseuds/GildedOrchid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A leader is nothing without his command chain, and Optimus Prime has one of the best and strongest in all of Cybertron's long history. Not merely allies on the same side of a war, they are friends and confidantes as well as trusted and comrades in arms. These are glimpses into their lives, into their camaraderie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hexian Five Card Blitz, or A Few Lies About Friendship

_**They don't have a set schedule for these gatherings.** _

(There's _totally_ a schedule.

They generally occur in the aftermath of one of Red Alert's more spectacular breakdowns—the ones where he's not merely fritzing over pranksters screwing with the cameras, but where he's actually _On To Something_. The suspicions that result in things like Jazz planting knives in the sparkchambers of a subverted Ops cell while Wheeljack reports there's enough explosive payload planted in the reactor core to crater Iacon and it's all set to go off in a joor. It doesn't go over well with Prime, and it just frags the rest of the command chain off. They have to investigate for deca-cycles and Jazz gets the added bonus of getting his struts busted by Prime because "damnit, he's supposed to have a leash on the bots in his division and _Primus_ , it's like they're nothing more than Decepticons that figured out how to occasionally play nicely with others, except no, not really, _congratulations on the fine job you're doing, Jazz_ ".

It makes everyone stressed and irritable, and if they don't take time to cool off, the next bot to blow the base will be one of them, and none of the other officers will stop them because frag you, and frag this slagging war. Ironhide refuses to come, though he has a standing invitation. Ironhide claims it's because he'd rather spend time with Chromia (who also has yet to take advantage of her invitation). Chromia says that their free time is for them. Red Alert is convinced it's because Ironhide and Chromia can't cheat to save *anyone's* life. They all kind of agree with that.

Of course, if necessity doesn't mandate they all have a gathering, there's a standing date every stellar cycle. They try very hard not to think about the fact that they have yet to go a full stellar cycle without Red having one of those aforementioned epic fritzes.)

_**They get together in an unused room on base** _

(The only unused room on base is a supply closet on the lower levels. It's too small to hold all of them, and it doesn't even have lights. They usually call an officer's meeting and descend on Jazz's office –it has the space, a rather large conference table with surprisingly comfortable seats and soundproofed walls. Surprisingly, in fact, Jazz's office is almost completely bare, in full defiance of the expectation that his would be covered from floor to ceiling with who knows what. Instead, the only thing in the room besides the furniture and a computer system they all suspect has never even been turned on are…trinkets. Not a lot of them, nothing particularly strange or even messy.

There's a few orbs spread about the desk, and the only thing spectacular about them are that they are all pure Praxian crystal. When they inquire, Jazz just gives them a lazy smile and says there's a story behind them; no one's managed to pry it out of him yet. There's also a conductor's baton—now a converted stylus—that Jazz keeps close track of, and though a bit unusual, it makes perfect sense once they remember that Jazz was a musician. There's more to that story too, especially given the way Blaster and Mirage will stare at the baton sometimes, as if expecting something amazing to occur any moment. What though, they haven't quite figured out. There's a piece of polished marble on the desk that they can make out now-faded etchings of sheet music on it—and that's apparently got a story too. The last time anyone asked though, Jazz got in one of his Moods, and they never dared ask again. It was Smokescreen who eventually let them in on the fact that it was a bit of stone from one of the guild houses in Protihex, and no more needs to be said. They learned a long time ago there were things you just didn't ask a bot about. Not asking Jazz about Protihex was added to the unspoken rules that reminded you to never _ever_ mention Tarn to Wheeljack, and bringing up Airachnid to Elita-One was practically a killing offense.

So, Jazz has a couple of trinkets and nothing else in the office. Smokescreen's running a bet on the side about where Jazz's work is actually stored, because the sheer sterility of the office indicates it's nowhere inside that particular room. They lock the doors and turn off all the comms except for the emergency channels, and no one on base knows that Prime's command staff isn't hard at work protecting justice, freedom, and the Autobot way.)

_**and play a friendly game of Hexian Five Card Blitz.** _

(There is nothing friendly about Hexian Five Card Blitz. The game is a high-stakes nightmare where cutthroat is for amateurs, and terming it nicely at that. None of them are amateurs, and they've taken cheating to new heights.

Not that cheating is exactly discouraged in Hexian Blitz.

And they do cheat.

Brazenly.

Prowl counts cards. Elita-One stacks the deck and uses shifters. Ultra Magnus stiffs the pot and steals from the bank. Red Alert taps into the camera feeds around the room to spy on everyone's hands. Ratchet gave up bluffing a long time ago and switched to dire threats of impromptu physicals and virus screens that none of them have the struts to try him on. Smokescreen has cards up his plating and Wheeljack hasn't added up a score properly since they first started playing. Jazz owns a set of ceruluean crystal dice—Praxian crystal and loaded of course—that never fails to produce the most hysterical mix of amusement, horror, and disbelief on Prowl's face.

No one can figure out how Jazz has so much of the stuff, come to think of it...)

_**They have a drink or two** _

(or nine. They aren't quite sure _what_ Prowl and Jazz are drinking. They've been experimenting with it for at least seven stellar-cycles. Prowl says it's safe and an old recipe besides, but that's complete and total slag. Whatever it is they're drinking, it cratered _**Superion**_. Grimlock pilfered a cube of it once and spent the next mega-cycle hallucinating and blowing fireballs at the wall. Wheeljack's managed to work out that it's one part mercury, one part cyanide, two parts refined Hexian ultra-grade and one part something else. It's that one part something else that makes them all wonder and gives Grimlock random processor flashbacks. Ultra Magnus and Elita-1 usually kill off a bottle of Helix Premium Label together. Wheeljack sticks to his own experimentations, but he brings enough to share. He gives each concoction its own name, like 51 Guns or Vos Sunrise, and they're usually spectacular. Every now and again he goes off into left field, however, and it ends in tragedy. Rather like his experiments. They'll sell their own parts for cubes of his Stormbreaker, but his Tarpit Blitz can stay there. Smokescreen has a stash of Old Fortran that was diverted from Axiom Nexus, and no one can figure out how he got it. Ratchet has been extorting bottles of energon wine out of Mirage for vorns now, ever since an unfortunate interface with a mech he refuses to name led to a rather embarrassing round of virus scans. Red Alert claims he needs to stay sober just to keep up when they play Hexian Blitz, so he sticks to cubes of high-grade confiscated from Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. They aren't sure if they should be horrified or impressed with the tolerance level that indicates.)

_**and make up stories about each other.** _

(Elita-One claims that Ultra Magnus waxed poetic and blew up a planet. Wheeljack swears Smokescreen used Prime as ante in a card game and actually dared to lose. Ultra Magnus accuses Elita-One of being secretly afraid of energy-spiders. Prowl swears Smokescreen fragged Soundwave and Jazz proclaims that Prowl is terrified of Firestar. Smokescreen throws in that Jazz and Prowl were fodder for celebrity gossip. Things…degrade when Jazz claims Prowl defaced the Crystal Gardens. )

_**Things are okay afterwards.** _

(Well, yeah actually. Not a hundred percent okay because of the war and all, but give them time. They're Autobots of exceptional quality, and the one thing a good Autobot learns early on is to cheat death and disaster. They've got this nailed down. )


	2. The Secret-Keeper, Part One

 

 

It was a popular myth that every Cybertronian could trace lineage back to one of the Thirteen, and the denizens of Protihex had long revered Solus Prime, more so than any other Prime and maybe even Primus Himself. Protihexans were artists, but Solus Prime had been a  _weaponsmith,_ and Protihexans had never let a skill set go unused. Oh, they would dress it up and incorporate inspired traces of elegance and flair to such an extent that it became Art, but at the end of the megacycle a sword was a sword, no matter the quality of the scroll-work on the hilt or the stylized engraving along the blade. If they had manifested any trace of Solus' legacy the Decepticons' difficulty in taking Protihex was understandable.

Those bots had endured longer than anyone expected, but Protihex  _had_  been taken. Protihex had fallen. Megatron  _razed_  Protihex, grinding the city of artisans and musicians beneath his heel. The Temple of the Primes, the Grand Harmonic Spire, the High Gallery, eons of Art and culture…all destroyed, the dust and rubble coating the few refugees that had escaped the merciless rampage of three Decepticon gestalts loosed upon a civilian populace.  
Uraya fell next, overrun during the regions' 30 meta-cycle long dark period by Shockwave's drones and Insecticon swarms. Even  _if_  they retook Uraya, the city was uninhabitable; the drones were too dangerous for anything less than a full military incursion—which they couldn't spare—and the Insecticons had consumed most of the buildings, leaving behind infested ruins and technorganic waste.

Neither of the sister-cities were his main target, but they had long stood between Megatron and Praxus, and Prowl had kept a special watch over the city, seeing doom hovering over its barricaded walls.

The problem, however, had been that Prowl didn't know  _when_  Megatron would strike; only that he would. All of Cybertron knew Megatron despised Praxus and would make an example of the city-state.

But the when? That question plagued them all.

The warlord switched between cycles of straightforward carnage and truly sinister plotting; Optimus' fear was that Megatron would wait for them to fall into complacency and strike, while Prowl's was that Megatron would hold off until the Autobots were spread too far to mount an effective resistance and  _then_  strike.

Ratchet voices the true horror, however: If destruction was Uraya and Protihex's fate—cities that were merely in the way and not a target—what will Megatron do to Praxus?

Prowl isn't even sure if Megatron will leave  _anyone_  alive, and it chills his spark.

Praxus and Iacon are all that remain of the Torus states now, and it is where Prowl convinces Prime to place the two primary bases, saturating that area with the bulk of Autobot troops. He spends the next three vorns trying to stave off the inevitable with barely anything to work with—The Decepticons have been playing their cards close to his chest again—and Megatron?

Megatron harries them.

He strikes Simfur first. The All Spark has long since been relocated, and all that remains are scattered refugee camps and leftover energon stores.

Six hospitals.

Four temples.

The largest youngling center on the planet.

What occurs will later be remembered as one of the worst war crimes in the entirety of the Great War.

It is an outrage! Simfur is not a military target, they did everything to ensure it didn't  _become_  a military target! Simfur holds no particular danger to Megatron, but he strikes because it is convenient and non-combatants don't deserve the resources they've been hoarding from the rest of the planet. He strikes because it will draw Autobot forces away from Iacon and Praxus.

Mostly, Megatron strikes because it will  _hurt._

Word reaches them of the attack, and Prowl feels something cold grip around his spark as he reviews the situation. It would be so easy, so very easy, to hold back the best troops to guard the two cities closest to his spark, but he won't. He can't; the Enforcer decals he still wears aren't merely for show, and he didn't earn the trust of two primes by making the easy choices. Optimus Prime expects him to hold Cybertron's best interest above all else, and Prowl has never betrayed that expectation.

He sends them Elita-One; the femme commander excels at guerrilla tactics, especially in urban environs. Elita had been running an impressively effective resistance against Shockwave's incursion into Altihex, enough that the femme commander had been made a priority target equal to Optimus. Shockwave had turned all of his processing power towards capturing the femmes, but had disappeared during one of Elita's maneuvers in Altihex, hopefully deactivated in the explosion that claimed his primary laboratory.

Unfortunately, it had also claimed a number of her femmes in her personal cell and she needed reinforcements. Badly. She'd returned to Iacon to regroup and pick replacements for her cell, and Prowl had planned to shift her over to Praxus; Praxus held a large concentration of femmes, ones that would make Elita's job easier because of the city-state's mandatory term of military duty and cultural emphasis on martial pursuits.

Elita would have been a valuable asset in protecting Praxus; Shockwave—if he was still alive—would be incredibly reluctant to move against the city by ground; Elita-One had enough of a reputation for wreaking utter havoc on ground forces that Megatron would turn to an aerial assault, and Praxus' anti-air defenses were such that Starscream would  _never_ accept the monumental casualties his fliers would take.

All moot now, because the femme commander is needed elsewhere.

Jazz is with him when he asks Elita-One if she is willing to take her cell to Simfur; it turns out to be a mere formality because Elita is already prepping her group to deploy. He runs through some last minute plans with her while Jazz slips a few extra surprise packages into their ship's hold and takes a moment to playfully announce that Moonracer will always be one of  _his_  bots, even if she's running with Elita's group now. He and Elita deliberately not notice the Ops director slip Greenlight a mission chip and a highly illegal restraining bolt with a pointed glance at Airachnid's back when the femme turns to pin her calculating gaze on Moonracer.

A few joors later, and Jazz is explaining the source of some of Iacon's more debilitating security leaks while he revisits some of the more viable plans he has stored for defending Praxus, shifting troop numbers and damage predictions (Praxus will pull through, but it's going to take some doing, and the south sector will probably never be the same again). It hurts—he can feel something inside himself twist and pierce his spark as he shifts resources away to account for Elita's absence from Praxus' allotted defense, but when Jazz's vibrant blue gaze meets his own, the mech does him the courtesy of not noticing the purplish tint in his own optics.

When Jazz casually swipes ones of his data pads and begins to input his own touches on the tactical plan as he continues his rant about untrustworthy femmes (and Airachnid in particular), Prowl feels a bit of the weight ease off his spark.

Megatron strikes Tyger Pax next.

It, at least, is a military target. It houses the remnants of the High Council; those too stubborn or too stupid to seek the safety of Iacon like those who now comprise Autobot High Command. Along with them are the last of the planets security forces and the Elite Guard. There are also the refugees from Simfur and the last remaining Neutral camp still on the planet.

The councilors hold out for a few decacycles, but the populace is all too aware of the example Simfur was intended to be. When Megatron announces leniency will be shown to those who take the Decepticon brand willingly and rise up in arms against the Neutrals and Autobot sympathizers who  _obviously_  don't care about anything except saving their own plating brutal uprising erupts in the streets.

Tyger Pax might have held out against a Decepticon siege; it cannot handle internal strife  _and_  a siege. They demand help of Optimus Prime.

He can hardly voice his own opinion—that the councilors created their own problem by refusing to seek the safety of Iacon and don't deserve the help now that Megatron has turned his eye towards Tyger Pax. It was one of the first cities evacuated, after all.

He instead slots Wheeljack and his squadron for the task before Prime even has to ask, is hardly surprised when Ratchet decides to accompany him, and just sighs with resignation when the Protectobots follow after because  _of course they would._

Prowl can only envision the entirety of the north sector of Praxus in ruins as he removes three more of his key players from the Praxus equation and notes five of his eleven viable plans as untenable.

Frustration and anger born of fear for his home war inside of him as he feels all of his efforts slip away; Megatron is methodically forcing the Autobots to spread, to break the tight defensive bubble they'd created as they slowly pushed outward to reclaim Cybertron back from his grasp. Megatron is stripping defenses away from Praxus, is forcing the issue, and Prowl  _knows_  he is, but he can't stop it. Not without sinking to Megatron's level or worse.

His rigid control breaks, and had he been a slower mech, Jazz would have been flattened by the desk Prowl flung across his office when he opens the door. Jazz merely steps over the broken piece of furniture and holds up a cube of energon with a wry look.

Jazz helpfully picks up the scattered data pads while Prowl drinks, then wanders off to track down a new desk (and update the tally Rewind has been keeping in the enlisted wash racks of destroyed desks).

One new desk later, Prowl is reorganizing his data pads and finds a transfer assignment for Grimlock and his team buried in the middle of his stack of plans. When asked, Jazz shrugs and points out that Grimlock has been going out of his way to torque off Prime lately, and it might be best to separate the two for an orn or two. Besides, you can't run the Prime out of Iacon, and Praxus is close enough the team can still be utilized if necessary.

Prowl doesn't point out that the only contention between Grimlock and Optimus lately is the argument over "who punched Megatron hardest that one time back in Altihex" that surfaces whenever the two get into the high grade together-and that is more often than most suspect. He just wraps his arms tighter around Jazz after their duty cycles are complete and lets the gratitude in his EM field do the talking for him.

Megatron hits Nova Cronum next. It is far too close to home, a dangerous push into Autobot borders. The city is Cybertron's cradle of intellect, home to the best minds on Cybertron, many of them dedicated to furthering the Autobot cause. Megatron takes no prisoners, killing anyone who doesn't immediately defect.

It is a move that cannot go ignored, and even worse, Ultra Magnus—now a duly appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accords—cannot abide the gross violations of the treaty's terms. The Wreckers go with him. Jetfire is also compelled to go; Nova Cronum is a surrogate home to him, after all. The Aerialbots go with Jetfire.

Optimus sympathizes, but Nova Cronum is home to the Chamber of the Ancients. He is Prime; he  _has_  to go.

The bleak certainty of failure settles over his shoulders as Praxus is left barely defended in a feint that they can't afford to ignore. The city is exposed, and Megatron  _will_ strike.

Prowl flips his desk, but finds little comfort in the action.

The hole he punches through his wall offers even less.

He does it again, on the off chance the second time is the charm.

It isn't.

Neither is the third.

A black palm catches the fourth swing, and his optics flare red as he whirls on—Jazz!

The saboteur gently curls his fingers over Prowl's, entwines them as the tactician slowly relaxes his arm and they are left holding hands. The mech doesn't need to say anything, just stares up at him, visor dim with remembered frustrations from his inability to save Protihex. Jazz has always had a gift for words, but he is a virtuoso of silence.

The stress and emotional drain get to him, and Prowl sinks to his knees and rests his aching helm against Jazz's legs, spinning scenario after scenario, rejecting it, and spinning another, refusing to give up so easily. He has the best tactical processor in the army, possibly of all the planet; there is logically  _no way_  for every analysis to end with the fall of Praxus. He just isn't trying hard enough; he's  _missing_   _something_! Start over, look again.

There  _has_  to be a way; he is Praxus' Chief Enforcer—their best defense! For millennia he has been sworn to keep it safe, and he  _has._

He will!

He  _must._

He runs thousands of variables deep into the night cycles. Jazz stays the whole time, a calming hand emitting gentle magnetic pulses through his helm, staving off the crash Prowl is adamantly working himself towards.

Despite Jazz's efforts otherwise, Prowl finally crashes himself on the 15,067th scenario.

Megatron strikes four meta-cycles later.

If the warlord had expected a quick Decepticon rout, he was mistaken. The Praxians fought hard and long, remembering the sacrifices of the sister-cities that had tried to protect them. Reinforcements swarm from across Cybertron as fast as they can, but it is not enough to turn the tide, merely hold off the inevitable.

There is no mistaking the vicious cunning behind Praxus' defense stratagem; Prowl has decided that if Megatron wants Praxus, he will pay so dearly in the attempt for it that it would be better to not try at all. The Praxians not able to escape agree, and fight all the stronger for it.

What none of them expect, however, is for Megatron to set fire to the city's energon pipes—energon is too scarce, too valuable, but Megatron does just that. The warlord has decided that If Praxus wants to play a war of attrition, then he'll make sure  _nobody_  has  _anything_  left.

The explosions are horrific, shattering glass as far Nova Cronum and sending tremors across the planet as far as Kaon itself.

The flames burn white over much of the city, such is the heat generated from the pipeline blast, permanently scarring parts of the ground to such an extent that it will never recover. Megatron promised to reduce the city to ashes, but most of Praxus  _melts_ , and it is a ghastly, miserable spectacle.

The release of so many chemicals triggers an acid rain that reacts with the burning energon, producing an almost solid wall of caustic smoke that does not lift, but seems to sustain itself in a gruesome reaction. Screams can be heard for almost a decacycles after the initial explosion from within the city, and weapons fire is a constant staccato above the crackling inferno.

In the end, despite all of Prowl's efforts, Praxus doesn't just fall, it  _burns,_ and Jazz has to drag the mech away from the war-zone before coding gets the better of him and the mech actually tries to cross the smoke barrier to enter what is left of Praxus; there are cleaner ways to commit suicide.

For a long time, Prowl is silent, watching the flames climb higher and higher into the unnatural night. Jazz is hard pressed to tell if the red glow in Prowl's optics is just a reflection—a trick of the light from the fire that is consuming Praxus—or a tangible manifestation of the dangerous molten rage inside him that might come exploding outward at the least provocation. He never thought he'd see the day that he'd be grateful for what befell Protihex, but here he is.

"…they'll  _ **pay**_ ….I'll kill them all for this…I  _ **swear**_  I'll kill them…"

Prowl's voice is a dark growl that startles Jazz with the sheer hatred imbued in it, and the mech's EM field is ragged and roiling with incandescent rage and murderous intent. Prowl is a mech pushed past all control, driven to the brink and hurled over it; smart bots flee a mech like that, give him a wide space to boil through his more dangerous emotions.

Jazz is one of the smartest.

He is also one of the most loyal.

There is nothing to be said, not within that cruel here-and-now, so Jazz stands silent at Prowl's side as Praxus blazes, a steadying hand pressed between the mech's door panels as those normally pure blue optics glow a nightmarish red and a white fist clenches in rage, clenches so tight his claws break through dermal plating and energon leaks out, falling to the battle-scorched ground in a relentless, implacable  
drip…  
drip…  
drip…

 


	3. The Secret-Keeper, Part Two

 

Tech Notes: 

Comm. ID protocol: Rank-Position-Name-Base  
SOBO: Special Operations Black-ops Operator  
TOBO: Tactical Operations Black-ops Orchestrator  
Delta Green - Codename for Jazz's personal Ops Cell  
Hightower - Codename for Prowl's personal tactical team   


* * *

 

 

  
  
Eons across space and time, a human would one day question the concept of alien sub consciousness, and ponder if, indeed, Cybertronians dreamed. Said human would ask this of the Autobot theoretician Perceptor, and receive a mini-dissertation on the concept of metaphysical constructs and transitional memory flux, contrasting the standing theories with the Terran fields of Jungian psychology and neo-contemporary dream studies. This would lead to a highly abstract debate on the function of dreams, perceptional reality, and mental disorders.  
  
Perceptor would consider it one of the more intriguing discussions ever held with an alien youth.  
  
The human would go on to win two Nobel prizes over the next fifteen years for the resulting innovations in the treatment and study of mental disorders, primarily those related to autism and schizophrenia.  
  
More immediately however, the human would wait until after the discussion was over and Perceptor busied himself with other work, then go ask Wheeljack. The engineer, who was usually too busy shattering scientific barriers to waste time with overly-detailed explanations—unless it was about astrophysical engineering (which was totally a legitimate field, thank you, and certainly not an “abuse of physics and good sense” that he and the gang at CERN had indulged in after too many drinks)—merely replied, “Yes, but it’s more akin to actual flashbacks than subconscious memory dumps...so no. Maybe. We could build something and run tests?” The offer was ultimately turned down, and the human left to go research on his own, taking the first steps towards a ground-breaking future.  
  
If he'd had the forethought to know, he would have gone to Prowl with the question.  
  
Prowl knew.  
  
Prowl was an authority on dreams by sheer virtue of having endured so many of them.  
  
Unlike other races they encountered, Cybertronians did not think dreams were to be considered good things. Dreaming meant the processor was stuck on a particular memory during the beginning stages of recharge, replaying it over and over again—it was a glorified processor loop. Processor loops weren't inherently dangerous--just annoying--but if a processor loop occurred during the beginning stages of recharge that usually led to an incomplete recharge cycle, and  _that_  was dangerous. An incomplete recharge cycle meant that the bot's CPU wasn't going to operate at full capabilities. It meant energy depletion, and thus lowered performance. Lowered performance meant increased chances of system glitches, and system glitches led to major processing malfunctions.  
  
Like increased instances of “dreaming”, or full-blown flux-terrors. Flux-terrors were the absolute  _worst_ ; a mech glitched while dreaming, and things like audio-visual hallucinations and recharge-debt were brought into play. Oft times the corrupted dream changed, growing more horrifyingly macabre or grotesque. The heightened state of anxiety insured that recharge wouldn’t occur, making the problems exponentially worse.  
  
A Cybertronian started dreaming? They went to a medic before they wound up a glitch-ridden mess on the verge of a total system crash a few megacycles later.  
  
Prowl experienced his first “dream” after the fall of Praxus.  
  
It had been a very long decacycle for the Autobots; the battered and weary army was only just beginning to grasp the true extent of what had occurred. Praxus, despite Prowl's best efforts--in spite of  _everyone's_  best efforts--fell in a cataclysm of searing flame and caustic smoke. The city-state had been reduced to little more than a guttered wasteland and Optimus Prime, spark hurting and weary, didn’t even know  _where_  to begin.  
  
None of them did, to be honest.  
  
The question burdened Optimus. Did they see to the refugees first? There were so few of them ( _oh Primus_ , so very few) that it seemed feasible. But his Autobots had been dealt a harsh blow as well--there wasn't a one at Iacon Alpha Prime in particular that hadn't been affected personally, be it lost kin or an old friend, and the rest of his forces had been left reeling from the shock. He was their commander first and foremost...did he see to his army first? Their morale had died a horrible, screaming death somewhere between Menasor laying waste to the Assembly and Bruticus rampaging through the youth sector. The Neutrals who had done their best to avoid the war were panicked, and their main goal was now getting as far away from Cybertron as possible. Did he continue to shield and comfort them, or did he see to the war, leaving the Neutrals to their own devices and redouble his efforts to  _end it_ before Megatron struck again?   
  
Was he a warrior or solace to a fractured and wounded populace?   
  
Was there even an in-between to be found?  
  
In the end, Optimus saw to the refugees and leaned on his officers to see to the war that would not go away simply because he was needed in a different capacity. It was extremely compassionate, but also very cruel in its own way—something he would later realize, and to his horror—because it left _Prowl_  to pick up the slack.  
  
Prowl, still reeling from the sheer magnitude of the quartex's events, was nothing if not dutiful however, and shouldered aside his personal grief and stress to see to Prime's orders.  
  
The first reports had just begun to pass along through official channels, leaving Prowl to be immediately confronted with the magnitude of what Megatron had wrought.  
  
There were still a few survivors unaccounted for, but by official counts scarcely more than four hundred sparks remained from what was once a teeming metropolis hosting almost a million beings. Of that number only one youngling remained, dug out by Ironhide from the wreckage of the Crystal Gardens before the acid rain began to fall.Twenty or so femmes survived, most of them members of the security forces from the outskirts of Praxus. They had been lucky; their rush to defend the city--and subsequent meeting with certain destruction--had been thwarted by the utter annihilation of the pass leading into the city center (and Bruticus' swathe of destruction). The rest are old mechs, far past their prime and more lore keeper than warrior.  
  
Prowl rather wished the younger denizens of Praxus had thought to save themselves and sacrificed the elders, but he understood their logic even as he faulted them for it. It had been long expected that Megatron would spare no one, so the choice had been made to evacuate the city-state's elders so that if nothing else, at least the old traditions, the history and culture, would remain. The elders themselves had not been impressed with the decision, preferring to fight instead of being reduced to hiding away while their children took up Praxus’ defense, but found themselves nonetheless barricaded in the lower levels of the Academy by their self-appointed watchers.  
  
Thus protected—no matter how they protested—, the elders instead saved as much as they could, transferring almost all of the city's vast historic records and databases to Iacon’s mainframe before they were herded through Cybertron's old passages and tunnels toward Iacon cycles before the Decepticons arrived, assuming there would not be much of anything left once the siege of Praxus ended.  
  
Prowl didn't even need the reports to know the grim truth: there wasn’t.  
  
The city would never recover from the loss; saving the elders was worthless without a younger generation to guide, and the nature of war--especially such a vicious, brutal one as this--would never allow for a safe repopulation effort.   
  
The war had driven more than one species of mechanimal to extinction; it seemed that now it could claim an entire frame class as well.  
  
It only grew worse as Prowl delved deeper into the reports and was presented with the sheer, cold fact that Praxus was the golden standard for atrocity.  
  
Genocide? Check.  
  
Mayhem? Check.  
  
Carnage? There could be no other results with  _three_  gestalts rampaging through a city. Check.  
  
Utter ruination? The black cloud shrouding the city was so thick neither Autobots nor Decepticons could claim a win from the engagement for simple fact that neither side could  _see well enough_   _to assess the damage_. Even the most generous estimates attached to the reports predicted at least three centuries before the deadly smoke dissipates. Conservative estimates were closer to seven or eight centuries, and almost a full millennia in Perceptor's case.  
  
The one certainty was that no matter who was determined to have won the Siege of Praxus in the end, be it Autobots or Decepticons,  _Praxus_  had lost.  
  
Prowl had lost. His one calling, his reason for sparking, and he had failed  _so. Very. Badly._  
  
Jazz was gone, so he didn't even have that source of comfort; Prime's only order before turning over the war effort to Prowl was to send Jazz and his team to Darkmount to get as much information as they could before Megatron took out another city-state. The rest of the officers were spread thin, assigned their own duties by Prime, so Prowl was left alone to deal with the unrelenting influx of reports. It took him nearly the better part of the next megacycle to organize it all before he retired to his quarters, at the end of his proverbial rope and unable to take anymore.  
  
His attempt at recharge began normally enough. He laid down on his berth, shut off his optics, and activated his recharge sequence. His higher functions shut off first—the battle computer, his tactical programs—followed by his weapon and combat sequences. The memory dump was next, and the larger files flashed through his processor as they were compressed and vaulted or deleted.   
  
His meeting with Prime.   
  
Saying goodbye to a visibly concerned Jazz.   
  
Going through his reports.  
  
The video footage of the youth sector attack salvaged by Red Alert.  
  
The video footage of the youth sector attack salvaged by Red Alert.  
  
The video footage of the youth sector attack salvaged by Red Alert...The video footage of the youth sector attack salvaged by Red Alert...The video footage of the youth sector attack salvaged by Red Alert…  
  
Prowl “dreamed” that night-cycle of towering flames and a grey youngling’s doomed retreat into the Crystal Gardens.  
  
  
  
  
Prowl, having achieved little more than the equivalent of a joor’s recharge, was weary. It felt as if the stress of all he had endured had taken its toll on his body during the night cycle; the hinges of his door panels ached terribly, and there was a dead weight across his plating that served only to amplify how horrible he felt. He had to use an extra ration to counter the effects of little-to-no recharge, and his processor’s boot-scan reported 98.9% operational integrity.  
  
It was a poor start to the megacycle.  
  
He should probably see Ratchet about the “dreams”, but as he made his way towards Iacon’s med-center, it became increasingly clear that it the medic’s hands were full. Mechs and femmes had been reduced to waiting outside the doors of the compound, the inside obviously packed with higher priority cases. Prowl glanced down toward the western end of the long corridor, where Grapple and Hoist had their own bay, and could make out a thick crowd of Praxian frames in various degrees of injury.  
  
A sudden sense of fear and shame gripped his spark, and Prowl quickly whirled away—he didn’t want to see them; he couldn’t deal with the evidence of his failure so soon; not like this. Prowl quickly retreated back the way he came, almost colliding with First Aid in the process.  
  
“Oh! I am so sorry, sir! Are you okay?”  
  
 _Frag no_. Prowl quashed the response, instead seizing upon the opportunity presented him—he didn’t honestly have time for the extensive tests and prodding he would endure if Ratchet found out he was dreaming, and he couldn’t deal with the crowd of refugees, so that wrote off Grapple or Hoist.  
  
“I am…as well as can be expected, First Aid.”  
  
That drew a sympathetic noise from Ratchet’s apprentice.  
  
“Tell me…” Prowl glanced back at the crowd of Praxians, and had to suppress a shudder. “Do you have anything to help with fatigue?” First Aid followed his gaze, and his visor flashed as inspiration struck.  
  
“Oh, you’re right! They’ve all been waiting so long, anything would help!” First Aid produced a hand full of vivid fuchsia micro-cubes.  
  
Okay, that hadn’t been what he meant but still…stim-cubes. Enough for full quartex, at that. Too many for what he needed. “…First Aid, while I appreciate the gesture—“  
  
“Oh, you’re right, sir! We’ll definitely need more than that. I’ll get Blades to take them more!”  
  
Well, if First Aid was going to make it that easy…  
  
“I’ll see to it, First Aid. You get back to Ratchet.”  
  
The young apprentice shot him a grateful look as he dashed back towards Ratchet’s med-center.  
  
Prowl commed Blades with the order and returned to his office, where he slipped most of them into his desk drawer before consuming one. It dissolved nearly instantly, and Prowl’s systems hummed as a surge of energy rushed through him. Feeling renewed, Prowl drew himself up and set to work.  
  
He assigned Perceptor and Wheeljack the task of finding a way to break the acidic cloud resting over Praxus, approved Ratchet’s supply request and forwarded it to high-command so they could see about purchasing them, and turned to Kup and Ironhide’s status update of the Autobot forces.  
  
A meeting request from Rung popped up to go over personnel updates. The psy-ops specialist normally assessed the mental status of potential Wreckers, but was currently pulling double duty alongside Smokescreen as a therapist not only for Iacon’s residents, but the traumatized refugees. He certainly hadn’t seen the legendary “Shimmer”, and Springer would probably shoot himself before asking Prowl to join the Wreckers, so it was no doubt an attempt of the mech to use the pretense to pick and prod at him about Praxus, asking all sorts of inane questions about how he felt then offering unsolicited advice that ultimately could be simplified to “extra therapy sessions”.  
  
The psych team had wanted at the command staff for a long time.  
  
Prowl rejected the meeting.  
  
Prowl fought down the urge to groan as his data-pad chimed a message alert soon after. Sure enough, Smokescreen had followed up Rung’s rejected meeting with an offer of his own. Smokescreen was slightly better to deal with. The mech had been cross-trained between tactics and psych, and what he lacked in Rung’s persistence was made up with his ability to out-think everyone else or come at an issue sideways. Smokescreen’s saving grace was that he understood how all of the command staff worked, and knew when to push and when to leave be. Smokescreen only ever insisted on sessions when there was a legitimate problem that he saw, or on the rare occasions when Rung finally pushed at him enough to garner action. Both were equally plausible this time. Still, he had no time for it. Prowl’s door panels twitched in irritation as he ignored that message too, and turned his attention back to more important things, such as  _why fifteen members of Kup’s squadron and twelve of Ironhide’s had up and fled for the Neutral camps._  
  
It made a sad sort of sense, to be fair. Iacon directly over-looked Praxus, and all it took was a glance to the eastern horizon to see the price of denying Megatron. The ensuing desertions were almost to be expected, in fact, but Prowl did not doubt that extreme violence would ensue should Ironhide encounter any of the deserters. Or Kup, for that matter.  
  
Those reports were followed up with after-action reports from Ultra Magnus. Magnus had arrived as fast he could with his Wreckers, and together with the Dynobots had managed to force Bruticus to break apart into the more easily managed Combaticons. It was a successful effort--not enough to salvage any significant portion of the youth sector, a bitter part of him noted--and had resulted in the Combaticons being knocked out of commission for a considerable amount of time. It was unfortunate, though, that Ultra Magnus was so thorough with his report--vid captures, damage assessments...pictures...it all accompanied the report, which meant he was going to have to actually browse the material for any useful information.   
  
Prowl reached for another stim-cube and sat it close by, knowing with a sudden cold certainty that he would be dreaming that night-cycle.   
  
  
  
  
It was deep into the second deca-cycle after the fall of Praxus when Jazz's team returned from their mission, all accounted for and only minimal injuries amongst them. They remained collected and calm, as if there weren't seven different snipers aiming at their sparks, while Red Alert ran a deep scan over each of them with the base's sensors to verify their identity before allowing them access into the base proper.   
  
Normally Prowl would meet him somewhere near the entrance, but this time Elita-One was waiting for him, arms crossed and a slight frown on her normally placid features.   
  
"Jazz."  
  
"'Elita. Scatter, mechs. We'll debrief later." Jazz waved off his team, and they did just that, leaving him and Elita-One alone in the hallway.   
  
The rose-colored femme lightly scratched a dark patch of carbon scoring off of his arm plating, brushing it away with a negligent gesture before tucking her arm into his and gently tugging him deeper into the base.   
  
"Anything interesting?" Elita asked, as casual as if she were inquiring about the weather and not a black-ops mission.   
  
"Same old same, 'Lita." Jazz matched her tone for nonchalance, but he shot her a sideways look as if to say,  _"What the frag are you doing, femme?"_  
  
"Same old same, is it? We could probably use a bit of that around here at the moment, Prowl especially." Elita gave a thoughtful hum. "I wonder how he's doing?"  
  
The question was deceptively casual, but set off alarms in Jazz's mind--Elita-One knew  _everything_  going on around her--if not from her own observation, then from information passed to her from her various cells; the femme had a network to rival his own, and he certainly wasn't fool enough to think that it excluded his own agents. If Elita didn't know, that meant it was a cause for concern. Especially when that source of confusion was Prowl.  
  
Prowl had a strict schedule--at the officer's mess for his first ration of the day a cycle before he start of his shift, two cycles going through the base from end to end at the start of his duty shift so that the ranks could pull him aside if need be before he was drawn into more important work and couldn't be interrupted. The rest of the day was all meetings and planning sessions, with a few breems slotted for a mid-megacycle ration that he never got; Smokescreen or Ultra Magnus would bring it to him, (depending on who needed his immediate attention more). He then would stop work approximately a joor before the end of the megacycle, spend one cycle in the officer's lounge, and then retire to his quarters.   
  
Prowl had held the same schedule for vorns, only deviating to deal with emergencies or the increasingly rare off-cycles he allotted himself.   
  
"You don't know?" Jazz all but demanded.   
  
Elita shrugged. "He's been very...elusive. Mirage might get jealous if it keeps up." Elita turned towards the long corridor that led towards Prowl's office, still maintaining her casual facade.   
  
"Well, if it gets too bad Smokey can talk him down."  
  
"Ah, but Smokey hasn't seen a single bolt off Prowl in over a quartex."  
  
Jazz frowned. "I was talking about Mirage."  
  
Elita nodded. "Be that as it may,  _I_  was talking about Prowl." Elita slipped free of Jazz's arm as they neared Prowl's door, and strode forward to the keypad, pressing the entry button.   
  
A sharp chime sounded and the entry panel flashed red, denoting the rejection.   
  
Jazz was struck by the sudden feeling that it was going to be a  _long_  megacycle.   
  
"Might as well override it." He murmured, gesturing at the door pad.   
  
Elita stepped aside, cordially waving him towards the door. "Be my guest."   
  
Jazz quickly keyed in his override sequence, only to be rewarded with the same rejecting chime.   
  
What. The. Frag.  
  
Elita One met Jazz's incredulous outrage with a grim frown, all of her former pretense gone. "So it's  _all_  of us then. No one has been able to get in this office."  
  
Oh, surely not... "He blocked Optimus?"  
  
"He's still in Praxus, so no."  
  
Well, at least Prowl wasn't indulging in full on treason. Good to know, that.   
  
Elita sighed and gestured at the panel again. "Try using your other code."  
  
Jazz frowned. "Other code?"  
  
Elita just  _looked_  at him.  
  
Making a mental note to change i, Jazz sighed and used the master override he'd crafted-- _how did Elita find out about that one_ \--deciding then and there that he was going to make Prowl pay for this later.  
  
A sharp chime, and rejecting flash of red light.   
  
Taken aback, Jazz sent out a priority comm to Prowl.   
  
::Outgoing transmission: Recipient CG-01-Prowl-IAP: Open the door ::  
  
::Connection rejected::  
  
::Outgoing transmission: Recipient CG-01-Prowl-IAP:  _Prowl. The door_.::  
  
::Connection rejected::  
  
::Outgoing transmission: Priority 1: Recipient CG-01-Prowl-IAP: I can and  _will_  hack the damned thing.::  
  
::Connection rejected::  
  
::Outgoing transmission: Priority 1 - SOBO Delta-Green=Meister: Recipient TOBO Hightower=Barricade: Open the fragging door. This is ridiculous.::  
  
::Connection rejected::  
  
::Incoming transmission: User CG-01-Prowl-IAP: Accept::  
  
::Connection accepted::  
  
::CG-01-Prowl-IAP: Later. Now go away.::  
  
::LG-02-Jazz-IAP:  _No._  Open up::  
  
::Connection terminated by CG-01-Prowl-IAP::  
  
::Outgoing transmission: Recipient CG-01-Prowl-IAP: What the slag is  _wrong_  with you?!::  
  
::Connection rejected: Fwd. Recipient COL-04-Red Alert-IAP::  
  
Jazz felt more than saw a few of the cameras in the hall focus on him and Elita.  
  
His patience, already worn thin after his extended mission, fizzled and something inside snapped. "P _rimus fraggit! Stop being a slagger and open the door!_ " The order was punctuated by him beating ferociously on the door, to no avail.   
  
::Incoming transmission: COL-04-Red Alert-IAP::  
  
::Connection accepted::  
  
::COL-04-Red Alert-IAP: Don't waste your time.::  
  
::LG-02-Jazz-IAP: I swear, you'd  **better**  not be in on this Red!::  
  
::COL-04-Red Alert-IAP:  _Oh, please_.::  
  
::LG-02-Jazz-IAP: Sorry, Red. Look, will you just let me in?::  
  
::COL-04-Red Alert-IAP: I would, believe me, if only because this sort of behavior usually preludes a defection, but I used my security override with Elita One and Smokescreen two megacycles ago and nothing came of it. Well, Prowl actually threw them out then turned around and revoked my rank clearances.::  
  
:: LG-02-Jazz-IAP: What!? Have they been reinstated?::  
  
::COL-04-Red Alert-IAP: Oh, yes. Elita--wait, hold on--::  
  
::AC-00-Elita One-IAP has joined the conversation::  
  
::COL-04-Red Alert-IAP: As I was saying, Elita was good enough to reinstate my rank clearances immediately afterward.::  
  
::AC-00-Elita One-IAP: Indeed. I take it Prowl ignored you too?::  
  
::LG-02-Jazz-IAP: Something like that. I had to initiate an Ops connection just to get him to tell me to go away.::  
  
::AC-00-Elita One-IAP: I'd hope he'd at least let you in. I swear to Primus, We should just have Ironhide or Wheeljack blow the door.::  
  
::COL-04-Red Alert-IAP: Too messy. I've had cameras trained on the door, but he's only come out twice in the last decacycle; once was to use the wash racks, the second was to get his ration. He overrode the door controls with his clearance so we couldn't get a monitor inside.::  
  
::AC-00-Elita One IAP: He actually had quite the ration build up. That's what started all this, actually. While you were away, Ultra-Magnus let slip that Prowl was impossible to get a hold of. He got inside early last decacycle with one of Prowl's usual mid-cycle rations, but that was a good long while ago::  
  
::LG-02-Jazz-IAP: Smokey have anything to say about this? I  _know_  Ratchet must have, if Prowl's been skipping rations::  
  
::COL-04-Red Alert-IAP: I suspect Ratchet isn't aware. Smokescreen is, but both he and Ratchet have been so preoccupied with the Praxus survivors they wouldn't have had opportunity to do anything about it. Actually, the earlier incident with Prowl was the most we'd seen of Smokescreen since...The Fall.::  
  
::LG-02-Jazz-IAP: Oh, Primus. Smokey holding up okay?::   
  
::COL-04-Red Alert-IAP: I don’t think so, but Rung seems to be of a mind that he is after he browbeat the poor mech into a therapy session.::  
  
::LG-02-Jazz-IAP: I swear, I'm shipping that nosy-bot off to the Orbital Hub one of these days.::  
  
::COL-04-Red Alert-IAP: We'd all be much obliged if you would. He's actually been logging complaints on all of us since... _anyway_ , come up to security. The rest of this is better addressed in person, and I'm running on a skeletal staff as it is so I need to stay close. ::  
  
::Connection terminated by COL-04-Red Alert IAP::  
  
Elita and Jazz spared one last frustrated look at Prowl’s office door, and walked off to the elevator at the end of the hallway.   
  
Jazz leaned back against the wall with a deep sigh as the lift began its descent into the lower levels of Iacon Alpha-Prime and the base’s security center. It had been an extremely long, difficult mission that had taxed he and his team, and his hope had been to simply make it back to base, debrief everyone, and take a moment to just tend to himself before he had to see to everyone else again.   
  
He certainly hadn’t expected to deal with a budding crisis three breems after he arrived, and it was quickly sapping the last of his energy. Elita One shot him an assessing gaze as if she could read his thoughts, and after a brief moment passed him a cube of energon from her subspace.  
  
He accepted it gratefully, and was pleasantly surprised by the bittersweet aroma of aluminum and a sharp, clean tang of nickel. It was a far cry from the standard rations they received, and better than some of the brews he’d tasted over the vorns.   
  
“Firestar’s been experimenting again.” Elita smirked, anticipating his next question.   
  
“I’m stealing that femme from you one of these megacycles.”  
  
“I can hurt you.” Elita quipped as the doors slid open, revealing Red Alert’s domain. The wall of the circular room is covered in monitors, tracking everything from the civilian sectors to the base’s rec room and wash racks. The floor proper hosts nearly twenty stations, each of them wired into Iacon’s defense grid. Floating camera-drones whizzed through the open air space, watching the watchers, of which there were precious few. Normally the security center was a bustle of activity, but most of the security staff was with the Prime sorting the remains of Praxus or shoring up the defenses of other Autobot held cities lest disaster strike them as well.  
  
Currently only ten bots were in the security center, each monitoring a different sector of Iacon, while various drones attended the automated defenses. High above it all—near to the ceiling, in fact—on a hovering platform Red Alert oversaw everything, his personal console drawing in and compiling information from every station.   
  
Red Alert had taken the liberty of sending for Smokescreen and Wheeljack; the two mechs were waiting for them on a mini hover-lift that would take them up to Red Alert’s conference area, a docked platform extending from the walls.   
  
Not for the first time, Jazz boggled at his friend’s insistence on unusual layouts, but had to appreciate the logic behind a set-up that would throw off any intruders or assassins.   
  
“Jazz, you’re back!” Wheeljack’s helm-fins flashed a merry orange as the two clasped each other’s forearms in warm greeting. Wheeljack stepped aside and Jazz did a lingering once-over on Smokescreen, who was doing his best to appear normal, and utterly failing.   
  
The mech’s door-panels visibly drooped, a tell-tale sign of depression and his normally roguish bearing had been replaced with something closer to a sag. Armor plating was dull and optics were dim; a sign of either malnourishment or stress. Red Alert and Elita One certainly hadn’t been complaining about Smokescreen not taking care of himself, so Jazz was fairly certain which one he was going with.   
  
Not for the first time since Praxus fell, Jazz wished Megatron a lingering, painful death.   
  
“Smokey, mech…”  
  
Smokescreen held up a hand, forestalling Jazz’s words. “I know, Jazz. I will be fine, just…”  
  
“You’re not there yet, I know. It took me a while too.”   
  
Smokescreen startled, as if suddenly realizing that he wasn’t the only one to have faced the destruction of a city, or a home. He'd had to devote so much time and persepective to the more personal tragedy of Praxus that he really hadn't had time to reflect on anyone else. Jazz had lost Protihex, Wheeljack had lost Tarn, and Elita One, Ultra Magnus and Red Alert had seen Simfur captured, all despite each of their best efforts.   
  
Jazz made a mental note to see about Smokey once the situation with Prowl was addressed. He clapped Smokescreen reassuringly on the shoulder as he and Elita stepped onto the lift, quirked a vague smile as the unusually solemn mech bumped against his arm in return and something akin to his old cheer overrode that bleak, weighty sadness in his optics. And if Elita One was leaning against Smokescreen’s other side radiating support and affection, well four grown bots on a lift made for a snug fit, and EM fields were bound to overlap.  
  
Red Alert was waiting for them when the lift arrived at the platform, his own personal hover-lift docked at the table so that he could continue to monitor security. A camera drone hovered nearby, a long cable connecting it to Red Alert’s data pad as information was transferred over the hard-line connection.  
  
Red Alert let them all take seats and get settled in before disconnecting from the camera drone and nudging it away to hover elsewhere. “I’m sure all of us have more immediate concerns, so we might as well cut to the chase.” One of Red Alert's miniature wall drones skittered up the wall and across the table, dragging a clear package of rust sticks--a favorite of Smokescreen--and deposited in front of the depressed Praxian. Red Alert studiously ignored the occurrence (as if he hadn't just transmitted an order to the drone to do so). "I've taken the time to compile all of our various encounters with Prowl, and when combined with his unusual activity, I've determined he's either defecting--and doing a damned poor job of it--" Red Alert held up a hand to forestall the sudden round of outraged protests. "It's too ludicrous to give thought, I know."  
  
And it would have been the first thing Red would have worked to investigate then rule out.   
  
"So what  _is_  it?"  
  
"It's a 1080."  
  
There was a horrified silence around the table, and it took all of Jazz's control not to leap out of his seat and take off for Prowl's office and  _blow the whole slagging wall out if he had to._    
  
"Prowl's breaking."

 

 


	4. The Secret-Keeper, Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a long time coming, I know, but between the holidays and an unexpected round of pneumonia, I'm just now getting this up. Thanks, surprise Winter Storm 2013. x__x There is one more part after this, and I'm giving it the once-over as I type. I should hopefully have that up by the end of the week at the latest. (No promises though, because RL loves to make a mockery of my posting intentions =__= ). Anyway, the end is nigh, one way or the other. Thanks for sticking with me, gang, and happy holidays and a happy new year!

 

 

The security access tunnels that ran above Prowl's office were not supposed to support the weight of anyone save for the lightest of drones or cassetticons--and thus the startling amount of turret drones wandering the access tunnels--but Jazz had managed to distribute his weight evenly enough by bracing himself from wall to wall that the tunnels were holding. It was hardly comfortable; in fact the feat was made possible only by straining his magnetic capabilities, but such was the sacrifice made for friends and family.

The officer cadre had no one to rely on except each other; there was a deep gulf between the command chain and the ranks that took the combined effort of he, Smokescreen and Blaster to even remotely bridge. A lot of it was due to their larger-than-life reputations, which were a necessity to maintain. It wasn't mere vanity, either. He'd seen a squadron on the verge of a panicked retreat suddenly snap to and stand ground long enough for reinforcements to arrive and turn the tides of a major skirmish, all because someone caught a glimpse of Ultra Magnus rolling out to the lines, and it had spread. Wheeljack had a cult (and it _was_ a cult, no matter what he said to the contrary) that haunted the hallway outside of his wing with armfuls of little more than scrap and random weapon parts, hoping the engineer would work a miracle for them.

Wheeljack had confided in their group once that usually he just ended up strapping a bunch of explosive compounds to it and turning it into a makeshift bomb, or kept the scraps and gave them a spare weapon he had laying around. Sometimes--just sometimes--however, the right pieces of scrap and the right ammo yielded legendary results, like Cliffjumper's prized glass gas cannon (the remains of four different blasters and a vial swiped from Starscream's lab) or Elita-One's PathBlaster (a scrapped Decepticon War Machine and crystallized Destronium). And not to inflate his own ego, but he had it on good authority (hacked transmissions courtesy of Blaster) that the mere rumor of his presence was enough to send any one of Megatron's bases into high alert and leave hardened Decepticon warriors jumping at shadows.

Shattering that sort of faith would be detrimental to the Autobot cause, so they did everything to keep those images intact. That, in turn, meant that they had evolved their own nebulous web of confidence, support and warnings; they didn't have anyone else. The rank and file were out of the question, Prime had far too much to handle without adding their own issues to the stack, and most of them would rather submit to Vortex's tender mercies than deal with PsyOps; that group would go prying into the deepest part of their psyches, dutifully take notes on everything and turn it over to High Command. _That_ sorry lot would take one look at the reports and use it as an opportunity to remove them from their posts and replace them with their own puppets; they had long wanted Optimus brought to heel, either willingly or by stalemate from their own appointed officers. It had taken Optimus using the Matrix itself to approve his current staff and beat High Command at their own game, but the first sign of weakness and they would remove them.

The prospect was entirely unacceptable.

So. PsyOps, no matter how much the division claimed to want to help, were the enemy. They'd become masters of dodging PsyOps misguided prying and High Command's machinations, and part of their success was attributed to the series of codes they'd developed. Some of them overlapped with PsyOps and medicals' codes: a 742 was a minor personality glitch, a 439 was mental fatigue, and so on. Some of them, however, were purely of their own design. 920 meant a ranking soldier or junior officer was on suicide watch, 855 meant someone was vulnerable to a particular lure--they'd had Smokescreen pegged with that one for vorns until the mech had managed to fully exorcise Swindle's influence--they had dozens of them, the private codes they used to keep an optic out for each other with, but the most frightening one they had was a 1080.

A 1080 meant a full psychotic break; the code was a rather morbid legacy of Perceptor's predecessor. Lodestone had never been one to handle stress well, and the pressure of counteracting Megatron's Robo-smasher had gotten to the mech. Unable to find anyway to counteract the reprogramming device and drowning under a rapidly closing deadline to figure it out as more and more of their bots went missing and then randomly showed up on the wrong side of the battlefield with a new purple decal, they'd long figured Lodestone was going to have an episode. They had all expected a rather impressive flare-up during an officer meeting, or maybe a pitched fit in the middle of his lab. Instead, two of Lodestone's best assistants--Catalycon and Flamewar--wound up taking a trip through the machine after their transport was captured, and ended up at Shockwave's side. That was enough to push Lodestone firmly over the edge, and the mech strode into the middle of the Perihex training grounds with a fully loaded gatling cannon and unloaded the clip--all 1,080 rounds--before someone finally took him out. They had never been more glad that Lodestone had always been an abysmal shot, but the assault had still cost them twelve good recruits.

And a friend and fellow officer. Despite his end, it didn't change what Lodestone had been. His tragedy, however, had driven home more than anything that they needed to watch for each other.

The problem with a psychotic break, though, was just how unpredictable they were. None of them were immune--all of them had been there at one point or another--because millennium of managing a desperately disadvantaged army during a brutal planetary civil war was not exactly conducive to mental stability. There was no standard trigger--anything could set someone off, the symptoms were wildly varied, and the results just as random; they'd seen deep depression, violent outbursts, delusions, hysteria and even full on psychosis. Smokescreen had devoted a lot of time to unifying a concrete symptom list, to little success. Still, a 1080 wasn't a code they threw around lightly--they dared not treat it with anything less than the gravity and quick intervention it deserved--so just the mere suggestion of tagging a psych profile with the code meant that the bot in question needed to get their slag together, and fast, before PsyOps intervened. Sometimes, however, the break occurred.

Jazz wasn't camped out in the restricted inner-access tunnels for slag and giggles, after all. There were rules, but then there were _rules_.

_Rule one: If someone is breaking, don't wait for them to ask for help--take the initiative, because nine times out of ten, they can't--or won't--ask for help._

Smokescreen blamed himself the most for Prowl's state; the mech was his own brother, but he hadn't been there for him. It had taken a long time for them to convince the mech that it wasn't his fault--he might not have been there for Prowl, but he _had_ been the primary source of therapy for a deeply traumatized refugee group--more so than any of the other PsyOps staff, who were all being utilized in the aftermath of Praxus--and this was on top of dealing with his own pain and rapidly mounting duties. Smokescreen hadn't had the time to hardly tend to himself in the aftermath, much less Prowl. Gone unspoken was the fact that Prowl hadn't exactly reached out for anyone in the first place, but all of them had thought it at one point or another.

But then, Prowl rarely did. Sadly, there was absolutely no surprise that Prowl hadn't reached out for anyone and just kept everything contained until he finally snapped from the strain of it. Prowl had been betrayed by both Sentinel and Starscream, had been targeted by high command's treachery and had been used callously by opportunistic rank-climbers within the army; the tactician had learned his lessons perhaps _too_ well, and even amongst his closet allies and friends, the mech was loathe to reveal himself too readily. He would trust any of them with his life, his possessions, his duties; _anything_ but his emotions.

Jazz frowned to himself, thinking about the many walls Prowl had erected over the orns. Only he and Smokescreen had any sort of ease getting past Prowl's defenses; the others _could_ \--which was more than anyone else could say--but they had to work for it. Prowl no doubt anticipated Smokescreen's impacted schedule and decided not to add more to the already massive load. Jazz tamped down on the sudden flare of irritation that he couldn't properly aim anywhere as he thought about how he'd been sent off on a mission fresh after Praxus, thus removing Prowl's only other support. He was simply too skilled to be kept out of play and had been tapped for a much more pressing assignment. He couldn't even blame Optimus.

They'd all been horrified to realize that Prowl hadn't been removed from active duty--or Smokescreen for that manner--but it was Elita who realized that Optimus didn't even know--he'd been out of Iacon since the start of the Decepticon assault. A bit of clever subterfuge on her part, and they were faced with the revelation that Optimus had assumed that both Prowl and Smokescreen had immediately removed themselves from active status and their duties spread amongst the rest of command, or to a temporary replacement appointed by High Command.

Ultra Magnus had been ready to reveal the entirety of the situation to Optimus then and there, until Red Alert rightly pointed out that doing so would see the news go straight to High Command, and there went all their positions by the end of things. Fear of High Command was what had led to the formation of Rule Two, and it was even more important than Rule One. Rule Two? You kept your vocalizer muted. A comrade's breaking stayed completely under wraps; if in public, you got them away immediately. If in private, you made sure it stayed that way. They didn't run their vocalizer about one of their own--not to PsyOps, not to outsiders, not even to _Prime_ if it could be avoided--and they never mentioned it again once it was over. **High Command especially never found out**.

High command would _love_ to have that kind of leverage over any of them, so here they were, hiding everything and taking matters into their own hands because Optimus remained ever so woefully blind to the machinations of that group and let them remain in control of the Autobots.

It was likely the primary reason Prowl hadn't excused himself from his duties--he wouldn't dare leave Optimus' orders to the whims of a puppet placed by High Command, and he wouldn't foist his own load onto the shoulders of his comrades. It honestly terrified Jazz when he thought about the sheer depths of Prowl's self-sacrificing tendencies. The ranks could accuse Prowl of being sparkless or too harsh all they wanted, but the truth remained: Prowl always-- _always_ \--took the brunt of the weight before letting it trickle down the lines. If Prowl leaned, it was because he was faltering under a load that would _crush_ anyone else. Jazz was very careful to ease as much off of Prowl's shoulders as he could without the mech noticing and putting up a fight, but this?

What a mess.

Primus bless Red Alert. Say what you would of the Security Director--and there _was_ plenty, to be fair--but Red Alert was very careful of his friends. He had always been outcast and shunned--both for his glitch and for the lengths he sometimes was forced to go through to do his job--so friends were a rare luxury that he jealously guarded. Red Alert never made an overt show of it, but they all knew Red kept a close personal watch over them, fanatically cataloging every personality quirk, every trigger, every injury, every evaluation--official or otherwise-- _everything_. Lodestone had been a friend...there would _never_ be another Lodestone among them so long as Red still functioned.

Red Alert had already turned his focus onto Smokescreen and especially Prowl once the attacks began, and after...well. After Praxus, he had been especially diligent--especially once he discovered neither of them were moved from active duty. In Smokescreen's case, he'd been desperately needed for his skills, and the time with the Praxian refugees was a way for him to grieve and find a support group as well. They'd made sure Smokescreen'd been involved in nothing else besides that as best they could.

Prowl, though...Red Alert had been horrified when he'd realized that his salvaged video feeds from the Youth Sector attacks had been time-stamped with Prowl's ID code, and he'd immediately set Smokescreen (who'd already been suspicious of Prowl's emotional state _anyway_ ) and Ultra Magnus after Prowl. Ultra Magnus had shown up with a mid-cycle ration for Prowl, using that as a means to gain audience with the suddenly elusive tactician. Magnus had been...distraught...to find out that all of the Praxus reports had been going straight to Prowl's queue, and even more stricken by the physical signs of Prowl's emotional distress. Prowl's armor, normally well-kept if nothing else, had faded to a dull mockery of its usual standard, clear signs of exhaustion and low energon intake. Also unnerving were Prowl's optics, which were glowing an almost unnaturally bright blue. If a bot were far enough gone that their armor was dulling, the optics were usually darker as well. Prowl's optics were even brighter than normal, so whatever energy he was getting? It wasn't energon, that was for certain. He'd tried to coax Prowl out the office with no success whatsoever; in fact, Prowl had immediately taken control of the conversation and relentlessly forced things along until he was shooing Magnus-- _Magnus_ \--out the door as if he were an errant rookie and not head of the Wreckers and a sub-commander of the entire Autobot Army.

Ultra Magnus had relayed the encounter to Red Alert, but his plans to attempt another intervention fell flat as he was summoned back to Praxus by Optimus to oversee the latest attempt to breach the vicious acid cloud surrounding Praxus. It was probably sheer luck that Magnus hadn't found the chance to corner Optimus and report Prowl's condition before the others had relayed the message for him to keep shut about it and let them take care of things, reminding him about Rule Two.

Wheeljack, with Red Alert and Elita's help, had managed to intercept a good deal of the incoming reports to his queue, and if Prowl noticed the mech kept quiet about it--the last thing he seemed to want was an out and out confrontation with the rest of them. Elita-One had found precious little time to confront Prowl either--she was acting in Prime's capacity with the High Council until her mate returned from Praxus, and the rest of their cadre was either in Praxus or out holding command of the remaining Autobot bases.

With things as they were, it looked like it was up to him to handle Prowl, which was a relief for everyone involved. Despite the complicated on-again-off-again nature of their relationship, it didn't change the fact that Jazz had a singular way of handling Prowl. Never was the mech so skillfully played as when it was Jazz at the lead.

Jazz enhanced the magnification settings of his visor until he could get a clear look at Prowl through the hidden peep hole he'd drilled long ago into the mech's ceiling, steeling himself for the worst as he contemplated Rule Three--a break wasn't pretty; don't let them hurt themselves, don't let them hurt others, don't hold anything against them, because it could just as easily be you to go next. This wasn't Prowl's first tangle with a break--he'd experienced one when Starscream had betrayed them and assassinated Sentinel Prime, but even that episode hadn't been anywhere near as bad as what the others had discovered this time.

Jazz would much rather have dealt with a paranoid and depressed Prowl, than the drone Prowl was slowly turning himself into.

The office was dimly lit--unusual for Prowl, who preferred bright lighting whenever possible, but Jazz could clearly make out what had alarmed Magnus so much about Prowl's condition. Prowl had always had subtle coloring, but what he was viewing was washed out; you didn't _find_ colors that dingy outside of dying mechs, who's nano-chromites were usually the last things to go before permanent deactivation. Prowl's signature muted black was more gray than anything, and the white was equally drab; it looked as if the mech had gone for a roll in a mound of dust! The color had even bled from his chevron, the normally vibrant red glass faded to a dull maroon. The worst part was the glow coming from Prowl's optics; he couldn't see them perfectly from the angle he was at, but the bleak gloom of the office was enough that Jazz could make out the edges of sickly red glow--one that he was sadly very familiar with.

_There_ was the answer to Magnus' question; stim-cubes.

A standard issued resource for Ops agents in the field, stim-cubes were a favored back-up plan for bots who had to operate on little to no recharge or fuel. They would give you a strong jolt of energy, but it was never meant to _replace_ energon or charging; it was too harsh on the systems in mass quantities, and a massive pain to come down off of. He'd seen strung-out addicts weather withdrawal from the worst of illicit additives more gracefully than a bot coming down off a run of stim-cubes. Usually they were only used on extended missions by his field agents, or once in a very long while by the medics when stopping for energon wasn't feasible.

Jazz wanted to cringe as he did the math, and realized just how long Prowl had to have been on a stim run. Even if the mech had wanted to cut the intake and go back to energon cubes, the withdrawal would be _vicious_ \--auditory and visual hallucinations weren't uncommon in cases like Prowl's, and neither was nausea (caused by intakes sensitized to anything other than stims and thus rejecting it from a bot's system) or energon poisoning (caused by bots consuming too much energon in attempt to compensate for the sudden lack of energy). That also mean that Prowl would suffer processor aches and nervous twitches that would be strong enough to almost certainly make the most stalwart of bots reconsider coming down. Even worse, prolonged use of stim-cubes interrupted the recharge cycle once it was actually attempted, sometimes badly enough to cause _dreams_. If Prowl suspected any of that were likely, he would have simply cut his losses and continued taking them until he could stand down for a significant amount of time--long enough to work through the stim-crash.

Like he would ever have the time.

On top of that, prolonged use deadened most of the sensors in a mechs body to anything less than the most extreme triggers. He'd seen bots on a stim run take debilitating wounds and not falter in the slightest; it wasn't unusual for bots to simply leak out and deactivate from wounds they never even felt. Prowl had set himself up for a slagging _brutal_ stim-crash, and his state was more than enough to bring to hand High Command's reason to remove Prowl from duty--and his position.

Which explained why he was haunting his office instead of going out and about; it was enough to alarm any bot in Iacon, and word would _definitely_ make its way back to PsyOps, who would take one look at Prowl and declare him psychologically and medically unfit for duty.

They were going to have to find a way to deal with this without letting it get out--Prowl was going to have to come down off the stim run. Stim poisoning was possible, and a slagging _nasty_ way to go; the mech had to be at least halfway there already, judging from his condition.

Oblivious to the scrutiny, Prowl continued to work at his desk. His movements were considerably less graceful than the norm, and at one point his helm dipped low, as if the stims were wearing off and forced stasis were eminent. Prowl's door panels flicked sharply in agitation as his helm snapped back up, and he pulled open the top drawer to reveal a miniature hoard of stim-cubes. Prowl reached for two-- _two_ \--and quickly slammed them back with practiced ease, not so much as twitching as his optics--just recently void of that disturbing glow--flared with that horrid red glow once again.

Oh, _Prowl_. Primes and arbiters of grace be merciful... Jazz felt his spark twist in sympathetic pain and anxiety as he bore silent witness to Prowl's decline. He couldn't watch anymore; spark heavy, Jazz slowly worked his back up the shaft, set on returning to Red Alert to figure out their next move. Whatever it was, it needed to be _soon_.

 

* * *

 

 

"Oh for Primus' sake...where did he even _get_ that many stims, anyway?" Elita hissed as she slammed her energon ration down. They'd all regrouped in Red Alert's security center, and had been none too pleased with Jazz's revelation.

"First Aid." Red Alert replied, looking up from the various feeds coming across his hover-lift's console.

"First Aid's normally smarter than that." Elita murmured.

"He is, but Prowl's gotten one over on bigger and better bots than a green med-intern; Aid never stood a chance. Anyway, I snuck a look at the supply logs on my way back here. He'd given a box of them to Prowl with intents for them to go to one of the refugee groups that Grapple and Hoist were handling. I'm guessing that box never made it to them, especially since Blades logged out another box right below that one." Jazz rubbed at his visor, torn between throttling Prowl or hugging him.

"That's going to be a mess come inventory..." Wheeljack sighed. Ratchet ran a tight ship when it came to supplies, and missing or misappropriated inventory was an extreme irritant for the medic. First Aid should have kept better track of the stims, but it wasn't exactly his fault that _Prowl_ of all mechs decided to pull one over on him. Looked like he was going to have to run interference for the intern when inventory rolled around.

"That'll be a while, though, right?" Elita tapped a delicate finger on the edge of her datapad as she thought. It _had_ to be at least another deca-cycle, maybe even two, before Ratchet or First Aid would have time to run inventory, considering they were all still dealing with the the massive influx of refugees. As it was, she had already arranged for a full restocking of the medical wing in anticipation of the increased supply consumption--Ratchet might put the inventory off even longer. The longer they had before Ratchet found out about Prowl's stunt, the better able they were to avoid Ratchet causing a scene before they could run damage control.

She voiced as much, to which Smokescreen shook his head, radiating frustration.

"If Prowl's been on a stim run that long, it's going to be _at least_ a quartex before he's worked through the worst of the withdrawal, probably even longer. Even if we were lucky enough for Ratchet to skip inventory that long— _and we aren’t_ —Prowl would need to see Ratchet just to make sure he hasn’t glitched himself. I know for a fact he hasn’t been recharging, and I’m almost positive he’s dealing with some manifestation of traumatic stress because **all** of the survivors have been, so odds are he’s probably dreaming. It would explain the lack of recharge, and also why he’s taking stims in the first place.”

Jazz buried his face in his palm. "Well _frag_. If you're right, then he's screwed. No recharge because of dreams means stims. Stim runs mean you have to deal with the withdrawal, which means _more dreams_. Which means no recharge."

"Which means _more_ stims." Jazz shared a commiserating look with Smokescreen as they finished the progression together.

Which means that Prowl is a walking time-bomb," Wheeljack groused. "If he glitches out and pulls a Lodestone, we're going to have to put him down _hard_ , and I don't know about the rest of you but I don't much fancy scrubbing tactician off the wall, so I say _frag_ High Command and whoever else something has to say about it--get him to Ratchet by any means necessary!"

"That's a fantastic idea," Elita drawled, "but I'd like to _keep_ Prowl, so maybe a different plan?"

"Are you serious, 'Lita? We aren't going to be able to cover this up unless Primus himself intervenes."

" _Yes I'm serious_! If you think High Command isn't going to jump on the opportunity to get one of us out of the picture--and _especially_ Prowl--you're **deluded**."

Wheeljack's fins flashed a ruddy orange in frustration. "High Command can bite my shiny metal aft! How about we get Prowl fixed up and run damage control afterward? If High Command tries anything, Optimus can just overrule them."

"No, not really." Elita leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other as she scowled at one of the camera drones skittering up the wall next to her for lack of a better target. "High Command controls the army, not Optimus. It was a battle getting us all appointed in the first place, you know that! The last thing we need is to hand them the perfect excuse to remove Prowl"

"So what, you want to let him completely self-destruct because you're too worried about High Command?!"

"Can we _not_ do this in front of them?" Red Alert hissed, gesturing at Smokescreen--who looked faintly ill--and Jazz (who honestly wasn't looking much better himself).

“Aw slag, Smokey buddy, you know I—" Wheeljack's fins flashed mournfully, the dingy blue-gray tone inidicative of the frustration and despair that he was feeling. "Frag it all." The engineer grumbled, slumping over and burying his head in his arms with a weary rev of his engines.

"I know, 'Jack." Smokescreen's reply was subdued as he stared down at the half-eaten pack of rust sticks before pushing them aside and excusing himself. "I need to get back to my office. I'll...frag, I'll check in later or something."

Elita waited until Smokescreen exited the security center, then smacked Wheeljack across the helm with an angry scowl. "Could you _be_ anymore sparkless!?" She demanded, vibrant blue optics hot with irritation.

"Leave it be, 'Lita."Like it or not, 'Jack's got a good point. Something's got to give, and fast." Jazz sighed wearily, his visor dimming as he glanced down at the table. "Which means I'm just going to have to force the issue."

"What's your plan?" Red Alert demanded, not even deigning to look up from where he was patching into the feed to Smokescreen's office, determined to stave off any more "episodes" among their group. Jazz suddenly had the suspicion that Red Alert was going to be keeping close watch over all of them for the next few decacycles, whether they wanted him to or not.

Jazz slipped out of his and began to make his way towards the lift. "Well Red, I suppose I'm just going to go in there, grab the turbo-bull by the horns and go for a ride."

The assembled officers were quick to come to a conclusion on how that would go over, complete with mental imagery. An appalled silence lingered over the table for a long moment before Wheeljack finally broke it. "That's a stupid idea."

Jazz shrugged as he activated the lift controls. "If it's stupid but works, then it isn't stupid."

Elita-One, Red Alert and Wheeljack stared at Jazz's departing figure, then each other, that appalled silence back for round two.


	5. The Secret-Keeper, Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: To everyone who has read and reviewed this story even while I was pretty much disappeared, thank you! Honestly, it pushed me to finish this chapter, because I had some real gnarly writer's block going on. This is the end of the Secret-Keeper arc, but definitely not the end of Camaraderie, or Trinkets for that matter! Actually, this last installment of Secret-Keeper is meant to set up the next chapter of Camaraderie so, yeah, hopefully it won't be another year before I post again (sheesh!) I apologize profusely once more for the heinous lateness of this, but better late than never, right? - sorry ass excuse for maximum failsauce.
> 
> :: official comms ::
> 
> [ private communication]
> 
> " verbal communication "

 

* * *

*This installment picks up at the initial confrontation between Jazz and Prowl way back in the 2nd part.

A soft chime emanated from the sensor above his door, and Prowl resisted the urge to groan. Surely Elita One and Red Alert were smart enough to figure out he didn't want to be bothered? Prowl rejected the entry request, and stared down at his datapad. The supply report had just hit his desk for the orn, and he was busy trying to figure out a way to comfortably house and feed the refugees without stressing their reserves too much, but also not employing the ridiculous ration suggestions put forth by High Command. Those meager figures would barely feed them, much less sustain them. Even more appalling was their suggested ration controls actually increased their own allotment, cutting into the army's allotments and leaving next to nothing for the refugees.

The refugees would end up better fed at a Neutral encampment, and the last round of figures had showed that the Neutrals would be facing down starvation in a matter of a century or two unless they joined one side or the other. Or successfully made it through the Seeker blockades and escaped the planet.

The door chime sounded again, the primary lock disengaging as well. Prowl quickly slapped at the control to seal the door once more, rejecting the entry and activating the secondary locks as well. He doubted Red Alert would be willing to push his luck quite so far so soon; removing his rank clearances had been little more than a slap on the wrist given how fast Elita One had reinstated them, but the lesson had been learned and Red Alert had left him alone except to send him a message every once in a while that Prowl was in no way stupid enough to open, laden with spyware and viruses as it must have been; the moment he clicked on it Red Alert would likely upload all manner of spyware into his terminal, datapad and office's sensors and have his office well and truly hijacked in a matter of astroseconds.

Elita One would be belligerent enough to keep attempting to override his door, as would Wheeljack-though he hadn't missed that argument outside his door about whether or not blowing it in would be the better move. Smokescreen would have done so, but his brother had been too busy himself to do much more than prod at him through their sibling bond. Prowl had nudged back a few times himself, but hadn't had time to really deal with his brother and give him the time he deserved. He just needed to hold out a bit longer, and then he could devote his time to making sure Smokescreen was alright.

The door let out a sharp chime, and all the locks in the door slammed open. Prowl immediately activated his security protocols and overrode all access to the door, disengaging the access panel entirely before staring at his camera feed with a quickly mounting sense of horror. Sure enough, Elita One had come calling, but only two bots had the ability to override his security like that; one was in a different city-state, the other...

Prowl could feel things turning against him as he took in the angry stance of one Autobot Jazz.

::Incoming transmission: Source LG-02-Jazz-IAP: Open the door ::

Resigning himself to a long megacycle, Prowl reluctantly rejected the transmission. He was honestly glad Jazz was back-the saboteur had been an irreplaceable support during the last few deca-cycles, but he didn't have time for him now. Not to mention Jazz would take one look at him and blow a gasket.

::Incoming transmission: Source LG-02-Jazz-IAP: Prowl. The door.::

Or worse. It had obviously already been a trying deca-cycle for Jazz, and no doubt whatever Red Alert and Elita One had told him had compounded the feeling. He definitely didn't have time for this. Prowl rejected the connection, promising himself to wrap things up as quickly as possible so he could check on Smokescreen, then speak with Jazz before the saboteur got too wound up.

::Incoming transmission: Priority 1: Source LG-02-Jazz-IAP: I can and will hack the damned thing.::

Prowl rejected the transmission, and activated his door's full security measures. He did not think for one astrosecond Jazz would appreciate the maneuver, but if the mech did attempt to hack the door, it would buy him some extra time before he had to deal with the inevitable. Jazz took a personal interest in the well-being of those he'd let into his confidence, and like all things near and dear to the saboteur, he did not suffer anything to hurt them—even their own selves. Between harsh life-lessons and his own career path, Jazz had learned just how easily and deeply things could hit those he considered under his protection, and it had left a marked effect on him.

Jazz didn't worry easily, but when that particular switch was flipped, Jazz was capable of anything if meant ensuring one of "his" was all right. Jazz had hacked his door before with far less provocation; he did not doubt for one astrosecond that the others had not hesitated to grab the saboteur's attention and aim it straight at him. It was like dealing with Red Alert when he got stubborn, only infinitely worse because of one important factor: Red Alert would cave to rank and authority. Jazz wouldn't, and was no stranger to extreme methodology if provoked.

::Incoming transmission: Priority 1 - SOBO Delta-Green=Meister: Recipient TOBO Hightower=Barricade: Open the fragging door. This is ridiculous.::

_Ridiculous?!_ Using the most secure frequency in the Autobot Communications suite to badger him into opening a door was what was ridiculous! This was just wasting everyone's time now.

::Connection rejected::

Prowl paused. This was becoming a waste of time. And his time would continue to be wasted until Jazz was pacified somehow...

::Outgoing transmission: User LG-02-Jazz-IAP: Accept::

::Connection accepted::

::CG-01-Prowl-IAP: Later. Now go away.::

::LG-02-Jazz-IAP: No. Open up::

::Connection terminated by CG-01-Prowl-IAP::

Of all the cycles for Jazz to get belligerent!

::Incoming transmission: User LG-01-Jazz-IAP: What the slag is wrong with you?!::

Prowl resisted the urge to sigh as Jazz ignored his request to be left alone and sent another request. He rejected this one out of hand as well, and forwarded it to Red Alert. Hopefully the mech would step in and explain to Jazz the finer nuances of leaving a mech alone when asked multiple times.

And maybe Wheeljack would show up with a time travel device that could be used to go back in time and snuff out Megatron's spark before it even made it to its frame.

Miracles never ceased, Prowl mused as Jazz and Elita began to walk away. Finally! Prowl paused as a thought crossed his mind, and he buried his face in his palm with a low moan, not even bothering to calculate the odds that Jazz was being quickly brought up to speed on what his fellow officers had been dealing with during his absence.

Under any other circumstance he would be glad to see the mech, but now? Jazz was no doubt infuriated at being ignored in the first place; by the time Red Alert—and whomever else the mech dragged into the discussion—finished with their side of the story Jazz would be angry and worried, and that was never a combination he liked dealing with. There would be a ruckus. There would probably be a hole blasted into his door! This escapade would get all over the base, and right back to PsyOps and High Command, and then he was in trouble.

He'd already refused to step down from active duty-with Jazz on a mission and Ultra Magnus at Prime's side, there wasn't anyone really able to assume his duties that he trusted. The moment he requested a leave of duty High Command would have one of their own agents put in place, determined to wrest back as much control as over the new Prime, having realized that Optimus was not so easily cowed.

Prowl had no illusions about how utterly corrupt High Command truly was; High Command was comprised of the last surviving dregs of the senate, and while they hid their true intentions of returning Cybertron back to its oppressive status quo from Optimus, Prowl refused to let himself be further misled. He'd endured their meddling when they'd had their grip on Sentinel Prime, watching them twist and ruin the late Prime; he would not let them have another.

High Command, however, had not kept themselves so thoroughly entrenched in power by indulging stupidity; they quickly realized that he was actively working against them-and worse, lessening their sway over Optimus. They'd immediately turned to trying to find a reason to remove as much of Prime's commanders from power as they could, and replace them in turn with their own mouthpieces.

Praxus' fall was a prime opportunity for that; they could excuse Prowl from service under the guise of allowing him a grieving period, and between their talents for weaponized bureaucracy and poisoned compassion, it would be nigh impossible to get them to return him to active service before vorns of plans and structuring were completely derailed. Prime, naïve spark that he was, would be easy prey in the meantime. Prowl was fighting that august assembly just as much as he was Megatron, and he almost preferred the warlord's vicious megalomania to the subtle malices of High Command.

Megatron might be a beast, but he was at least an honest one.

Driven to exhaustion just thinking about the trouble on the horizon, Prowl slumped forward, bracing his elbow joints on his desk and resting his head against his hands. He was so. very. tired. He couldn't stop and regroup, or High Command would lay waste to all of his good intentions and slowly but surely infest the Autobots until they had become exactly what Decepticon propaganda claimed they were. He'd already delegated as much as he could; anymore and he'd be forcing one of the others into his same position, which was entirely unacceptable. Even more chilling was the possibility that doing so would alert High Command that Prowl wasn't working at his normal efficiency if he was delegating work. Their spies and mouthpieces would be at his door the next joor, gently solicitous as they poked and pried his every defense apart in an attempt to wheedle out something to use against him. There was no locking any of them out of his office, either.

He couldn't rest, because recharge had become his enemy. His thoughts raced and battered his processor to the point that he couldn't even reach a calm enough state to initiate recharge. Not that it really mattered, because when he recharged he dreamed, and they had grown more and more harrowing every night cycle. He was at the point that he'd given up on recharge entirely, lest he drive himself mad. In the insidious silence of Iacon's dark hours, he sometimes wondered if he was not already there. It grew exponentially harder to decide that he hadn't each time.

He'd had to stare the bleak consequences of his failure to defend Praxus in the face every metacycle as report after report was uploaded from the field, and he had but to walk the halls of Iacon to look the scarce few survivors in their optic and know how far short he'd fallen. He'd encountered the city-state's elders themselves but once, late into the last joors of the previous metacycle. He'd grown restless, had been consumed by the overwhelming need to get out of his office, even if for just a few moments, and bumped into their small cluster. They'd been reciting one of the old prayers for departed sparks, and he'd immediately retreated, feeling the weight of their stares on him. He did not think himself a craven mech, but he just knew that looking them straight in the optic and seeing the accusation and disappointment that surely must be there would more than he could take.

He needed...Primus, so many things. He needed to make sure Smokescreen was holding up okay. He needed to see if any other survivors had managed to escape the city in the recent meta-cycles. He needed to get plans in place before the Decepticons hit another city, likely Iacon. He needed to rest, to mourn, to just be able to stop, if only for moment.

His spark was wounded and beaten, the stress was sapping the last of his shattered mental reserves and no matter how he tried to juggle the staggering amount of responsibilities in his lap, he just couldn't shake the sensation that his back was against the wall and the cyber-wolves closing in for the kill.

A burning sensation roiled in his tanks as the stress he was under began to weigh down on him anymore He longed to be able to strike out at the ones responsible, he wanted yell out his frustration, he wanted just one instant of payback...the physical urge to do something overtook him, and he felt his fingers clawing deep into the edges of his desk as he tried to restrain his fraying temper. The attempt at restraint was too little too late, however, and clawing turned into a firm grip that saw him suddenly heaving the desk up and hurling it across the room.

It felt good.

He didn't even properly register his chair before it was in his hands and flying across the room to slam into his wrecked desk. Overcome with the need for just a little more physical exertion, Prowl whipped around and slammed one fist, then the other, into his wall, leaving a deep dent.

Feelings of satisfaction washed through him, but proved fleeting. They were gone almost as soon as they arrived, and empty hollow thing that left him even more tired than before he'd lashed out. Awareness was quick on its heels, and Prowl groaned and slumped low as he took in the ruins of his office and realized what a monumentally idiotic stunt he had just pulled. He'd just effectively kicked himself out of his own haven; the only other place he could possibly retreat to with any degree of privacy was his quarters-it would be only a matter of time before Jazz or Red Alert showed up, and there'd be no keeping either of them out, to be sure. Living quarters weren't nearly as secure as the offices.

Prowl hissed a violent oath and stalked out his door towards his quarters, resolving to deal with the mess of his office soon. For now, he needed to get to his quarters. The sooner he arrived there, the better.

 

* * *

 

"Oh sweet Solus guide us... you seeing this, Red?" Jazz murmured in stunned horror as he stood in the remains of Prowl's office.

Red Alert had been quick to send the message that Prowl had finally exited his office and they'd all scattered across the base to try and intercept the tactician. Well, most of them. He and Red Alert had both opted to make straight for Prowl's office and cut off a point of retreat—if Prowl went back into seclusion, it wouldn't be in his office. Ironhide, freshly arrived from tracking down a few of his deserters, had gone straight to the command center and had nearly gone ballistic when Red Alert had pulled him aside (or rather upwards) to update him on the ongoing drama. Ironhide had gone straight from shocked to worried to "Frag it, I'm knocking him a solid one and drag his rusty aft to Ratchet and to slag with High Command." Red Alert had finally resorted to locking Ironhide inside the Security Center until he calmed down lest the mech storm out and make a very loud, possibly very violent scene.

The camera drone that had been riding along on Jazz's back skittered up his shoulder plating, then down his arm to finally rest in his palm. A red scanning beam was activated, sweeping over the entire room with a deep thrum and transmitting the resulting image back to Red Alert's hover-console in the security center.

"Unfortunately. It looks like a combiner ransacked this room."

"Yeah, I can see how you'd think that." Jazz muttered, gently placing the camera drone on top of Prowl's overturned chair as he walked over to the wall containing a massive dent.

"Is that weapon fire?" Red Alert asked, irritation seeping back into his voice at the reminder that Prowl had disabled his security feeds in the office. The camera drone allowed him to view the office, but there was nothing quite as detailed as his expansive footage of Iacon. It irked him to no end that he had been effectively rendered blind inside of the city-state-inside his base-inside of his personal turf. The fragger. Seething at the situation as a whole, Red Alert glowered at nothing in particular from his hover-console and mentally cursed Prowl once again.

"I don't see any scoring around the impact zone, and there's no discharge anywhere...my credits say he went with brute force on this one." Jazz traced the dent, his optics dimming as he realized just how strained Prowl must be, if he was lashing out like that...

"What's that?" Ironhide interrupted.

Red Alert's voice was rife with annoyance. "What's what?"

"That!"

"Ironhide, get your hand off my screen!"

"Mute it, Red! S'your fault fer keepin me in here anyway!"

"Because you have no concept of patience, you crazy—get off my console! Hey!" Red gave an indignant squawk and sounds of jostling momentarily took over the line before Ironhide gave a satisfied grunt as the camera on the drone zoomed in on a pile of debris.

"Why that glitch-humpin' sorry excuse of a—Jazz! Get your aft over here and lookit this! Argh! How d'ya move this thing, Red!?"

Jazz shook his head bemusedly as Red Alert and Ironhide squabbled over the controls for the camera drone before it jerkily skittered over to a wide scattering of mini-cubes. Jazz followed after, the bemused expression fading into a mix of weary pain and frustration as he watched the camera drone prod at a scattered assortment of stims. There were packets of stim-additives in various assortments, small stim-cubes peeking out from the debris that had been Prowl's desk, a few of the milder stim-jellies that they usually passed out to the occasional starving youngling they happened across in the field or at Neutral camps. "The frag did First Aid do—hand him the code to med storage!?

There was a brief silence before Red Alert replied matter-of-factly, "Wheeljack's got the right of it. Ratchet is going to murder someone when he finds this out."

Jazz reached for a box and began collecting all the stims he could find in the wreckage. "If I don't beat him to it. Well, first things first, we're getting this back to med and away from Prowl."

Back in the security center, Ironhide had forced Red Alert to move over enough to give him room on his hover console and was now resting his weight half on one of the edges of the console and half on Red Alert's shoulder. Red Alert glowered at his fellow officer to no avail before returning his attention to Jazz. "Truly, that would be a good move. You think that's all of it, though?"

"…Nah." Jazz shook his head slowly. "We do his quarters next. This isn't all of the stims that come in a package, and I doubt he's managed to knock off almost a full third of a box without blazing straight through the stages of a stim-run and just out and out frying his systems." Jazz made quick work of gathering up the rest of the stims and subspaced the box before standing up, picking up the camera drone, and then moving over to examine the deactivated security cameras. "So, are these the new and improved ones I'm not supposed to know about yet?"

Ironhide's laughter floated over the audio channel, almost burying Red Alert's frustrated growl. Almost.

"I don't even know why I bother to be surprised anymore when it comes to you." Red Alert grumped. "It's the old model, because I haven't been able to get into Prowl's office to upgrade them yet. Actually...don't bother fixing it. I'll just go ahead and take care of it while he's away. And you better get moving if you're aiming to beat him to his quarters. Unless you're just going to break in and start a fight?"

"Wouldn't be the first time." Ironhide shook his head slowly as he studied the screens on Red's hover-console, a nasty grin taking over his features as he realized that Prowl was going to be intercepted by Wheeljack any moment, and that Elita wasn't too far away herself.

"True enough," Jazz agreed, "but I really could do without the attention his inevitable tantrum would cause. You know how it went last time. The yelling and threatening..."

"The weapons fire..." Red Alert muttered, noting Ironhide's quick tap on one of his screens—the one with Wheeljack nearing Prowl's position. Red Alert looked curiously up at Ironhide, who held up a finger as he thought.

"Yeah, something like that. Things'll probably be bad enough without making a spectacle of it."

They fell silent for a long moment, Jazz clearing up the last of the stims, Red Alert watching Ironhide patiently, and Ironhide…slowly grinning before leaning back against part of the hover-consoles monitor banks.

"So, tell me, Commander..."

Back in Prowl's office, Jazz frowned slowly. "Whoa now, that's Lieutenant-General to you, 'hide. I'm not getting booted upstairs, no matter what Prime says. And what's with the rank all of a sudden?" Jazz scowled, not particularly fond of the reminder of just how high he sat on chain of command, and the accompanying pitfalls thereof.

"Well, maybe I'm a bit fuzzy on protocol, but I thought only a Commander had the authority to even try and shut Prowl down. I mean, locking him out of the office is only going to go so far unless you pull out all the stops…"

Jazz stilled, a rare look of surprise on his features. "You want me…to relieve Prowl of duty?"

Ironhide nodded. "Yup. It'll lock him out of most of his system access, and if you tag it with a 1080 he can't be reinstated until he's cleared by either Ratchet, those idiot morons down in PsyOps, or Elita. 'Sides, what were you expecting? From what you all told me, it's going to take nothing less than the voice of Primus come down from on high to get him to stop. This is the next best thing."

Red Alert did not look too thrilled by Ironhide's suggestion. "If high-command gets wind of this…" Red Alert frowned, a deep slow one that only ever made an appearance when he was beginning to see a way for the delicate tapestry of their whole cause to unravel while they could only watch helplessly. "Well. We can all kiss our positions goodbye if this makes it to their audials. All they need is the one opening and they'll make a clean sweep of it—and the Decepticons will make a clean sweep of everything soon after."

Jazz quirked a smile at Ironhide's exaggerated groan. "Red, will you stop seeing doom and disaster in everything!?"

"I wouldn't be a very good Security Director if I didn't." Back in the security center, Red Alert shot Ironhide a superior look.

"Fair enough. But look, if the report gets mired down in bureaucratic sludge for a while…Ironhide's plan actually isn't too bad a move…" Jaz glanced around the office one last time before picking up the camera drone with a grimace. "Primus knows we've got justified cause."

"But you can't guarantee it doesn't wind up getting to High Command. The last thing we need is to—" Red Alert trailed off as Jazz scoffed.

"Please, Magnus and I have stalling down to an art form. C'mon Red…"

Red Alert swore softly and glared at his monitor banks for a long while, letting the muted hum of the active security center far below his hover-console wash over his sensors. Jazz had collected all the remaining stim-packs and was just walking into the security center when he was ready to speak again.

Jazz rode the lift up to the upper-level of the security center, meeting Red Alert at the conference table as the hover-console docked and Ironhide disembarked after an encouraging shove from the brooding director.

"All right, Red. What's doing?"

Red Alert frowned. "I don't like it, but we don't have much of an alternative. Besides, I'm fairly certain Wheeljack or Smokescreen will cave soon and go to Ratchet, rendering all of our plans moot. We don't have much of a window."

Ironhide leaned back in his seat. "Don't matter no way, long as Prowl doesn't go entirely round the bend on us."

"Well, I'll need a second—"

"Done."

"Nope."

"No? What do you mean, no!?" Ironhide looked mutinous. "I swear I'll go to Ratchet myself if—"

"Calm down, 'Hide. Red's going to second it because it'll send a message to Prowl that he's pretty much on lockdown. It'll make Prowl think twice about being difficult, at least. He can't be sure that we aren't just going to say to 'slag with it' and go straight to Prime with it. The way Prowl's been acting, he certainly won't want Optimus involved; Red Alert and I pushing this will let him know that we're prepared to go that far, and hopefully knock some sense back into him."

"And if nothing else, it's one more way for us to keep him pinned down until he gets this mess out of his system." Red Alert added.

"Fine. Well, I got this write-up from Magnus under his precious Accords about Prowl and substance abuse. Frag if I know what else to do with it. If we're going to be all formal about things, might as well stack as many chips in our corner as we can and include it..."

Jazz groaned. "Remind me to knock Tyrest upside the head if he ever comes crawling out of whatever hole he ducked into. Magnus hasn't been the same since he got infected with that blasted treaty nonsense." Jazz reached for the datapad. "Tell me you're joking about that."

"Nope. Bumped into Magnus on the way back to base, and he handed this over to me to give to the proper authority." Ironhide shrugged. "Which I thought was him, funnily enough."

"It _is."_ Jazz grimaced as he scrolled through Magnus' complaint. The grimace faded to something more reminiscent of a frown, then a quirk of the lip plating, then a low whistle as he finished reading it.

"I don't know whether to be worried by the implications, or impressed at how good he is at playing the bureaucracy card."

"Give me that." Red Alert quickly plucked the datapad from Jazz's grip and made a startled noise as he read through it. "Magnus…chose?"

"Whaddya mean, he chose?" Ironhide demanded.

"Ironhide, Ultra Magnus filed a citation under the Accords and told you to take it to the proper authority. You're right—Magnus _is_ the proper authority for this sort of thing. He's handled military justice and law for the Autobots since he enlisted—he's the closest thing we Autobots have to a legitimate judge advocate general. I think he _was_ one for Elita back in Simfur, as a matter of fact."

"He was." Red Alert pitched in helpfully.

Ironhide despised politics as a rule, and had little patience for subtlety or intrigue, but he was far, far, _far_ from stupid. Many mecha tended to underestimate him, and to their detriment. Ironhide might not latch onto an implication as quickly as a seasoned conniver like his present company, but he put two and two together easily enough and tended to cut through to the heart of the matter from there. Removing himself as the proper authority was tantamount to relinquishing his rank; the only other option would be dereliction of duty an' the Pit would freeze over before Magnus let that happen…

"Look, Magnus might be hopelessly in love with that thrice-damned Accord, but he wouldn't actually place it over being an Autobot if it came down to it. Not really." Ironhide shook his head. "He might be a bit torn up with the choosing, but he ain't leaving us short of deactivation."

Red Alert shook his head. "I don't know—Magnus put far too much effort into _becoming_ one of Tyrest's Enforcers for us to discount it."

"He's bluffing." Jazz said after a long moment.

"Maybe." Red Alert tapped at his console uneasily. "But maybe not. I respect Magnus a lot, but if it came down to a choice between the Autobots and the Accord?

"He's _bluffing_." Jazz's tone brooked no argument.

Ironhide's frown deepened. "You hope…one Pit of a way to up the ante on that game a' yours, though."

Jazz sighed. It was, no doubt about it. He himself refused to formally acknowledge his rank of Commander since he didn't want to be a candidate for the Primacy unless he had _at least_ a two-bot buffer (preferably three) between he and the Matrix—but that wasn't going to happen until Ultra Magnus passed him up in the hierarchy and had been made a Commander and third in command first.

All well and good, but Ultra Magnus was unwilling to assume more rank because it would put him in direct violation of the Accord's Enforcer provisions that stated an Autobot in succession for the Matrix of Leadership was to be considered an officer within an actively warring faction and thus unable to objectively enforce a neutral peace treaty.

Optimus refused to let _two_ of his officers pull the same stunt, so Magnus wasn't able to brazen it out and play stubborn like Jazz had—no matter, since Magnus was a _monster_ when it came to tactical bureaucracy. The mech had simply pointed out he'd been deemed an Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord while acting as Lieutenant General, so any subsequent promotions would have to be approved by Tyrest himself. Tyrest—while not listed among the deactivated—hadn't been seen or heard from in four millennia, and even if the mech _were_ around he wouldn't be approving anymore promotions for Ultra Magnus—he'd been after the mech to become one of his Enforcers before the Accord signatures had even been processed. The twist of the knife had come with Magnus pointing out that he was still a loyal Autobot however, so he would dutifully accept Optimus' promotions once Jazz saw fit to formally claim his own promotion and subsequently free the rank.

Each knew the other wouldn't dare jeopardize their carefully crafted status quo, so the resulting maneuvering left the Autobots with two missing Commanders whose duties were being handled by two Lieutenant Generals who technically didn't exist: Jazz didn't actually hold the rank of Lieutenant General any longer but refused to give it up, and Ultra Magnus had simply stalled out his chain of promotions.

They were content, it kept Optimus amused enough in private (which was perfectly okay with all of them because the Prime didn't have nearly enough moments of levity, truth be told) and it also served to keep High Command thwarted because they couldn't insert their own agents into the command staff—the two Commander slots were _technically_ filled by Jazz and Ultra Magnus because Optimus had promptly submitted the necessary orders (even if the two mechs in question were being difficult about it); the succession was assured (so long as Optimus, Elita and Prowl didn't all snuff it in one go) and the job was getting done. High Command couldn't attempt to place anyone in the slots of Lieutenant General simply because there were two visibly acting ones—again, Jazz and Ultra Magnus. They would have taken up rank dodging for that last reason alone.

Jazz leaned back in his chair, idly turning this way and that with his hands clasped over his abdominal plating. "Magnus wouldn't leave us in the lurch like _that—_ not without any sort of warning, at least. And he didn't electronically file this report—just loaded it up on a spare datapad and handed it over. There'd be a data trail if he was serious. It's a bluff."

Red Alert conceded defeat with a grumble before jabbing a finger at Jazz.

"That datapad is going to scare the raw slag outta Prowl. Or drive him crazy. You know that, right?"

High, high up on the list of things Prowl held absolutely sacred was his plans, and it already drove Prowl mad that Jazz and Ultra Magnus took liberties with something as important to him as the succession. Potentially outright losing Magnus might crash him outright. And good—the medical emergency would play right into their hands, but Primus wasn't nearly that kind. So, scheming it was.

Red Alert stroked the datapad. Prowl had a clear image of the succession—Optimus was Prime and should stay in that capacity because that alone had quadrupled his projections for ending the war in Autobot favor. Elita One would take the Matrix next, but no one liked to dwell on the obvious—two bots, once bonded, rarely survived the other. Prowl's projections didn't give Elita much chance of surviving Optimus, and of the scant few that did? All of them ended in her going out in a fantastically precise, staggeringly destructive blaze of revenge within a vorn. If Elita survived to become Prime, it would not be a position held long. They all knew that.

Prowl would step in next, his primary goal to end the war. With Optimus and Elita no longer blocking some of his more ruthless methodology, Ironhide expected victory—and that it would be quick, efficient, and utterly merciless. Prowl and Optimus both agreed that should Prowl fall, Jazz needed to be named the next Prime. Jazz would be able to manage the staggering task of both bolstering faltering Autobot spirits and salvaging any of Prowl's plans that might remain. Whatever it was Optimus saw when Jazz had been tested for candidacy had reassured him, but it had left Jazz incredibly resistant to becoming a Prime. It was, in fact, the point at which the saboteur began refusing promotions unless there was a strong buffer between himself and the Matrix of Leadership.

Ultra Magnus had been found worthy as well, but knew just as well as the rest of them that he needed more time to grow into his potential; he would not be able to handle the burden of following Optimus, Elita _or_ Prowl directly, but if the war ever took such a dark turn that it wiped out three Primes? Jazz would not only be able to pull off what Optimus and Prowl both hoped for, but he would also finish molding Ultra Magnus into a suitable Prime and leave the mech with an army and a strong chance against the Decepticons, not merely the utter despair or chaos they'd be looking at otherwise.

It actually explained a bit about why Jazz didn't want to follow Prowl in the succession as well; Jazz had already visited that scenario once when Protihex was razed and it had almost broken him. The mech was fiercely determined to never endure the like again, and the only way to do so was to remove himself from the leadership equation. The stalemate he shared with Ultra Magnus was his last resort barring outright abandoning his post.

Unfortunately, Prowl had all but dismissed the possibility of the Tyrest Accord standing, and the very nasty shock of him being _plain wrong_ had been compounded by Ultra Magnus almost immediately afterward accepting an appointment from Tyrest to act as an Enforcer.

Jazz was absolutely necessary as a Commander, but was entirely unwilling. Ultra Magnus had been compromised by the Accord; it was no laughing matter to Prowl, who viewed the resultant rank flaunting as both incredibly selfish on both Jazz and Magnus' parts, as well as incredibly aggravating because it compromised his multitude of plans and projections. Both Jazz and Ultra Magnus were aware of Prowl's feelings on the matter and therefore tread softly around the subject, but nevertheless, the two had managed to yet again weaponize it with subtle mastery.

Jazz's use of his ranks were a way of informing Prowl he was not only personally but _professionally_ displeased with the recent developments—and to the point he was willing to entirely remove Prowl from the equation and take his place until the mech got his scrap together. It wasn't merely thwarting Prowl's current plans—Prowl would see it as Jazz taking over entirely because Jazz didn't trust in _him_ under his current state. Ultra Magnus' complaint was a warning that he retained his commission and acted as an Autobot now primarily because he believed that they were upholding the Accord to the best possible capacity, but that he would choose the Accord over the Autobots if it came down to it. It wasn't leaving—not yet—but it was a warning and Prowl would have to know that, no matter how off in the processors he was.

Jazz nodded. "It'll shut Prowl down on the duty front; I can take it from there once he doesn't have his position to hide behind. That's the hard part of this taken care of. Let's grab Elita."

 

* * *

 

It burned.

Prowl fought down the urge to rub the plating above his energon tank as the uncomfortable burning sensation began to rise, an acidic sensation that slowly crept its way back up his intakes. Quick on its heels was a sudden draining sensation, as if he had no energy at all, as if he'd not had any sort of sustenance in a very long time. Fair enough—how long since he'd had a simple cube of energon? Too long, and yet not long enough. His normal rations were like paltry droplets of moisture in a desert wasteland; not nearly enough to hold against the looming specter of forced recharge, but the stims were necessary. They didn't sit nearly as well as they had when he first began taking them, but they kept him functional enough that he didn't worry about sinking into recharge without any sort of warning. Couldn't recharge—not with the dreams waiting for him. Not until Ratchet was less burdened with the refugees and he had the time to spare. Too much, too much to do and not enough time for him to step away.

His tanks burned. He'd take a few stims to settle his system, maybe a base-additive to counteract the acidic burning they were beginning to cause.

"-owl?"

What?

"Prowl?"

Was someone—a grip on his shoulder! What-no, who-an attacker?!

"Hey, Prowl-WHOA!" Wheeljack backpedaled with reflexes sharp enough to do an Operative proud, hands held up in the universal gesture of, "Holy slag please don't shoot me!", gaze torn between the acid rifle suddenly aimed at his spark and the shoulder canons primed and ready to fire.

" _Don't_ sneak up on me!" Prowl snarled, and Wheeljack honestly couldn't tell if Prowl was angry at himself for not noticing him, or frightened by how close he'd come to accidentally snuffing a comrade. Both, maybe? Probably both, judging from the too-bright optics, the rigid posture, and the agitated twitching of his door wings. He'd developed a familiarity with Praxian frame-language over time, and the movements were consistent with either emotion.

He just wasn't used to seeing it out of Prowl.

"What were you thinking, Wheeljack!?"

Wheeljack slowly lowered his hands, settling into a languid stance. "I was thinking that you knew I was there, you jumpy fragger. I'd only been following after you and calling your name for a breem."

"Ah. Well. I didn't hear you." Prowl quickly stood down, subspacing his rifle and powering down his shoulder canons as if he hadn't just come close to blowing Wheeljack apart.

"Yeah...I figured that. Kinda obvious because, you know," Wheeljack gestured casually at Prowl's now retracted weaponry, "canons. Aimed at my head. In the middle of the fragging Autobot stronghold what the slag, Prowl!?" Wheeljack forced himself to lower his voice from the shout it had risen too. No one needed to wander by and see two officers ripping into each other. It was bad for morale, and usually led to lecturing from Optimus or Ultra Magnus—both of whom were still in Praxus, thankfully—or helms knocked together by Ironhide who was back now, fresh from hunting down a few of his and Kup's deserters and not particularly thrilled with the cycle's revelations of how much further things had degraded while he was away.

"I'm sorry, it's been a rough metacycle and I've been preoccupied. Now will you mute it?!"

Wheeljack dutifully fell silent, more out of shock than anything. This whole conversation had been wrong. Prowl did aloof, and sometimes he dabbled with "too busy for this" or even "vaguely amused" when he was having a particularly good megacycle. Prowl never fessed up to anything that might make him seem less than totally in control—even if it was something as mundane as acknowledging he didn't hear someone—he never bothered with apologizing to anyone unless their name was Optimus Prime, and he sure as slag never confessed to be anything less than one hundred percent on point. Prowl was so far off his mark they ought to be calling him Shockwave (now there was a mech who couldn't hit the broadside of Bruticus).

Wheeljack's headfins flashed a slow, suspicious sickly yellow as he gave Prowl a once over. Prowl's normally pristine finish was a dingy matte of dark gray and smoky-white that screamed of malnourishment and massive levels of stress. Prowl flat-out looked like he was deactivating, his colors had gone so drab, but those optics. He could almost hear them crackling as he gazed into the overly-brilliant optics tainted by the sickly red-tinged glow. Jazz was right on the spot with his assessment-Prowl had gone diving off the deep end of a stim-run and never bothered to come back up.

"What are you staring at?!" Prowl snapped, his gold battle-visor snapping down to hide his optics as he gathered himself up self-consciously and glared down at the Chief Engineer.

Wheeljack's ire quickly spiked back up-here he was, worried about the rotten fragger, and all he was going to get for his trouble was a bad attitude and a ton of stress he could very well do without while Prowl went digging for rock-bottom.

Slag. That.

"I'm staring at an Autobot sigil with a stim-addict pinned to it." Wheeljack snapped as he pinged a quick message to Jazz and Elita One, planning to keep Prowl right where he was until either one was close enough to take the situation in hand and snatch that walking mess of a tactician up by the skid plate and get him to Ratchet. No one else was really capable of handling Prowl when he was on the "kill now" end of fight-or-flight protocols, except maybe Ironhide. But Ironhide had come down firmly on the "knock him across the helm and drag him to Ratchet and frag what anyone else has to say" side of things.

Then again, Ironhide had been the one eventually forced to give the order to put down Lodestone and the only one close enough to get to the former officer's side before he deactivated, and that kind of slag stayed with a mech. Ironhide, perhaps more than any of them, didn't drag aft when the subject of 1080s cropped up simply because he flat refused to deal with another Lodestone in his lifetime. Ironhide would have had Prowl down and out after getting one good look at him, then dragged his heavy aft down the hall to Ratchet's ward, cannon out and daring anyone else to so much as look twice.

Wheeljack really, really wished the ornery mech hadn't been locked in Red's security center—there had been shouting, profanity-riddled threats and waving guns, but as usual, everyone's favorite security director had successfully gauged just how far Ironhide was willing to go when he was on Red Alert's personal turf—with witnesses no less—and called his bluff. Alas, what might have been…

"I'm not addicted-"

"Yeah, you are." Wheeljack cut Prowl off, utterly frustrated with the tactician. "I'm not even going to argue the point. If you have any kind of sense left you'll take _this_ " Wheeljack pulled a cube of mild ration-quality energon from his subspace and pressed it into Prowl's hand, "stop being a _complete aft_ about whatever it is you've got going on and _talk to us_ —or at least fragging Smokescreen or Jazz because those mechs are worried to the point of crashing over you—before you do something we'll all regret!"

"I'm fine, Wheeljack! I've just got a lot to work through right now, and your completely inane accusations are nothing but a hindrance and entirely out of order besides!"

"Primus fraggit, Prowl! No you're not, and this slag right here is why Red's about to peg you with a 1080!"

Prowl froze, all offended sensibilities and disbelief. "He wouldn't. Dare."

"Oh, he so would—if I didn't beat him to it."

Prowl froze as Elita One's voice sounded behind him, then slowly half-turned to glance over his shoulder and see the femme commander leaning against a nearby wall, an unreadable expression on her face.

"Elita One."

"You're a hard bot to get hold of lately, Prowl."

Prowl didn't quite cringe. "It was my intent to find you all later. I've…been busy."

Elita shrugged. "That's nice, but I didn't much feel like waiting at your leisure." She straightened up and met Prowl's gaze with a grim frown. "Autobot Commander Prowl, as Autobot Commander-in-Chief and the most senior Autobot present, I am relieving you of your post and accompanying duties for the next decacycle on the recommendation of one Autobot Jazz, Commander but acting Lieutenant General of the Autobot Army and Director of Operations and accompanied by a formal seconding from Autobot Red Alert, Colonel of the Autobot Army and Director of Security & Intelligence. There is also a formal reprimand for substance abuse filed under the Tyrest Accord by Autobot Lieutenant-General Ultra Magnus, duly appointed Enforcer of said treaty."

Wheeljack's indicators flared a bright gold in surprise. Looks like a few of his fellow officers had upped the stakes in this brewing standoff with Prowl. Wheeljack wondered if Prowl realized the exact nature of the gauntlet that had been thrown down. The tactician's expression was all surprise before it was rapidly taken over by growing fury—and maybe a bit of trepidation. But mostly? Prowl looked like he wanted to put his fist through the wall. Or one of them, more likely. Yeah, the mech hadn't missed a single bit of nuance in that play.

Prowl's denta ground as his door panels snapped wide in sheer anger. "On. What. Grounds."

"Medical and psychological inability to perform your duly appointed office as put forth by Autobot Lieutenant General Jazz and Autobot Colonel Red Alert. There is also a formal observation registered by Autobot Sergeant Major Ironhide."

Prowl's gaze hardened. "It takes three _senior_ officers to even begin to force me aside, Elita. I didn't hear a third in this _farce_ -"

Of all the things to fall back on, Prowl. Wheeljack crossed his arms and pinned the tactician with a defiant glare. "I, Autobot Wheeljack, Lieutenant Colonel of the Autobot Army and Director of Engineering formally endorse the motion of removal proposed by Lieutenant General Jazz and seconded by Colonel Red Alert."

Prowl's features drew into an ugly rictus of anger. "Slag you, Wheeljack!"

" _ **Prowl!"**_ Elita's voice was a cracked whipped, the sharp outburst ringing through the hallway and fixing all attention on her. It was a talent of hers—there were rumors that she could stride onto the most chaotic battlefield and with a few such-delivered words turn their forces into a well-organized machine.

Prowl didn't jump.

He didn't.

"Leave it be, Prowl. Any one of us would have done the same, and with good reason. You look like you just crawled fresh out the Pit, and mentally—" Elita sighed. "Look, you have all of our sympathy—you, Smokescreen, every refugee from Praxus—Primus, we're _sorry_. No one should have to bear that burden, and I know it's worse for you since you were one of their leaders, but they're dealing with it— _you're not_ , and that's the problem. You can't bury yourself in a mound of work and escape—it's not healthy, and it takes a worse toll, in the end. You're burning yourself out with every cycle. Just…just _stop_ , for Primus' sake. Grieve. Vent. Some actual recharge and energon that doesn't come from a stim package would do you worlds of good."

"Do you think I _haven't_ been grieving!?" Prowl snarled, door wings rising with irritation.

"No. You've been escaping, and you're near to snapping from the toll." Wheeljack retorted.

Elita One fixed him with a compassionate look. "You are relieved, Prowl. Tend to yourself, and your fellow survivors. You need this, whether you admit it or not."

Prowl looked sullen. "I didn't ask for any of this."

It earned him matching expressions of…sorrow? Pity? It better fragging well not be pity Prowl fumed.

"We know." Wheeljack replied before he strode off in the opposite direction, stopping only to deliver a parting order of "Down the cube and don't be an aft about it!" before he rounded the corner.

Prowl glanced over at Elita, who was quietly studying him with optics that seemed to go right through him. He mentally tried a few different words, found them all wanting, and settled for resigned silence. Talking hadn't exactly stood him in good stead these past few breems.

Eventually, Elita spoke. "Are you…dreaming?"

Of course she would see right to the heart of the matter. Yes, I dream. I dream of death and burning and failure, and it is like to drive me mad sooner or later. Prowl sagged wearily for a brief moment. Was he really going to lie right to femme's face? He felt instant regret. He and Elita didn't deal in lies—not to each other. There was too long a familiarity, and both of them were exceptionally good at reading right through any lie offered them. She wouldn't be so easily deceived. The lie tumbled out, and had it been anyone else, he wouldn't have worried. "No."

Elita One went quiet, merely stared at him for a long moment. "…I see."

She did, Prowl realized, staring into blue optics rich with compassion and understanding on a level he just wasn't able to deal with at the moment. He drew himself up, breaking their locked gaze with something almost resembling relief as he turned and walked away, unwilling, unable to bear anymore of the well-intentioned concern. He just needed to be away, where he could regroup and figure out what to do next. Later. He would apologize later. There'd be a lot of them to pass around, too.

 

* * *

 

By the time he reached his quarters, the weariness had been replaced by a growing ire. He'd drained Wheeljack's gifted energon in a mere astroseconds, and the sharp craving in his systems had hardly been sated—it had been a tease, a mocking pittance that only made the pangs sharper.

He was in his room as soon as the door hissed open, striding straight for his desk and the stash of stims he'd left there. Nothing. He flung open one drawer after another with a growing frustration. Nothing. Nothing! Why not—there had been plenty set aside. Where-

"Whatcha looking for, Prowl?"

Prowl whirled around, all of his weapons systems primed and his rifle in hand as he leveled it straight at Jazz's head.

"Don't bother. You were dead five kliks ago." Jazz was casually leaning against the far wall near his berth, expression calm but words chiding. "Any halfway decent assassin would've had you on your way to the Well by now."

"What are you doing in here!?" Prowl demanded as he lowered his rifle and forced his systems to calm down. First Wheeljack, now Jazz. Someone was going to end up shot before the end of the cycle, Primus help him.

"You mean why."

"Why what?"

"Why I'm in here, why you've been barricaded in your office to the point you've gotten everyone worried about you. Why I've been getting all sorts of horror stories since I got back to Iacon. You know; why."

"That's vague, even for you. What is it you're actually after, Jazz?"

Jazz pinned Prowl with a frosty glare that had stopped even the most stubborn bots in their tracks. The glare that said he was not one to be trifled with, and that if pressed any further the recipient of his glare would be quietly disposed of—and not necessarily painlessly in the bargain.

"I think you know the why I'm after. The big one."

"Why what?" Prowl snapped, bracing himself for the confrontation he knew he'd have to deal with eventually, but had hoped to avoid for just a while longer.

The glare upped a notch in intensity. "Do you _really_ want to play this game with me?"

Prowl gazed dispassionately at the mech before him. "I assure you Jazz, even if I were a being prone to such things, this is hardly the time or place for games. Now, if you're quite done?" Unconcerned if Jazz chose to reply or not, Prowl continued his search for a stim-pack, frowning as he came up empty-handed. He'd had quite a few left...did he misplace them?

Unlikely.

So very, very unlikely.

Frustration and irritation churned into something resembling true rage within himself and it ran through his systems as one and one added up to a mech he was _going to throttle._

Jazz, still leaning against the opposite wall with deceptive nonchalance, produced one of the missing stim-packs from his sub-space with a flick of his fingers and waved it back and forth. "Let's put all the cards on the table, shall we?"

"Get. Out." Prowl snarled.

"Yeah…no." Jazz's reply was just as stubborn.

"Primus, haven't you done enough!? You already conspired to remove me from duty, now you're looting my quarters?!"

"Already got your office, too."

Prowl swore, an impressively obscene string that would have made Kup proud.

Jazz pushed off from the wall, squaring off against Prowl as the taller mech gathered himself into an imposing stance. "I fragging well _had to_ , since you were saying slag all about your own problems!"

"You had no right!"

" _You_ had no right to reduce me to spying on you and rooting through your office and quarters for hints about what the frag is going on because you're too Primus-slagging stupid to admit you have a problem! A big one with a giant ole' capital "P" that got fragged to the pits and back about a quarter of a vorn ago!"

That bought Jazz an inarticulate little growl of sound before Prowl found voice enough to rally with the one statement that was near ready to drive the saboteur completely up the wall.

"I'm fine!"

" _The slag you are_! You don't recharge—you **don't** , don't even try to deny it because even if Elita hadn't told me, I'd already hacked your berth logs and they show you haven't completed a charge cycle in two deca-cycles! Even worse than that, you're obviously suffering from flux terrors—I know the signs. And to make matters worse, you can't keep down normal energon you're so hopped up on stims, and your emotions are so out of whack you bounce between being completely sparkless or going into a fragging meltdown!"

"I am no sparkling that I need you to hold my hand while I go about my day! I was just using the stims for the time being, until I can afford the time to recharge. This is war, and some luxuries must be placed aside for pursuit of high goals."

"Afford the time to recharge? Luxuries!?" Jazz echoed. "Are you for real?! Recharge ain't a luxury!"

"Maybe for you. But then, you've always been more prone to indulge your impulses than others."

Jazz let the snide comment pass, though it was a near thing. "It's a fun little gift called Charge-Debt, Prowl. When you don't recharge, it takes its toll. Your frame degrades and takes the processor with it. You're already irritable, paranoid and obviously not thinking properly—Primus only knows what mental horror you've concocted for yourself and then projected onto the rest of us! You can't possibly think this is alright!"

"I said I'm fine!" Prowl's voice could hardly be called anything other than a snarl, his normally placid bearing distorted to one of rage and rapidly slipping control.

Temper frayed, Jazz hurled the stim-pack at Prowl for lack of anything more substantial. "The slag you are! You're rocketing off the edge of a downward spiral and doing frag-all to fix it! You're not "fine" Prowl, you're going down in slagging flames!"

The accusation set him on edge, and the urge to lash out was overwhelming. Oh, Prowl knew he was being goaded, knew that Jazz was deliberately provoking him into a physical confrontation that he was going to lose because Jazz was easily one of the most difficult opponents he sparred with when he was in peak condition, but the urge was there all the same, and he was not going to be able to resist. He was being baited, and taking a swing at Jazz in his current state was the pinnacle of stupidity. Unfortunately, one of the side effects of a stim-run was poor impulse control and a helping of aggression besides.

He swung, the blow vicious and full of raw power, but lacking his normal precision. Any other time, he would have landed a solid blow against the side of Jazz's helm, likely stunning him long enough to either administer a flurry of blows that would leave the Ops director flat on the floor, or to retreat to a more advantageous position. Any other time. This time, however, Jazz sidestepped his attack, and latched onto his arm with a firm grip, slipping into a stance that would allow him enough leverage to either slam him into the ground or haul him up over his shoulders and straight on into the wall.

"Sorry about this. Really."

Jazz flipped him, slamming him down into the ground with enough force to rattle the furniture and decorations in his room. Prowl's vision fuzzed from the jarring impact, and cleared just in time to see the saboteur's fist fill his line of sight. There was a loud crunch, then he saw nothing else after that.

 

* * *

 

The doors to the officer's common room swished open, the gentle hydraulic hiss covering Jazz's sigh as he entered the room. Elita, Wheeljack and Ironhide were huddled over their datapads, while a camera drone sat primly in the center of the table, Red Alert's holographic image showing him to be doing the same.

"Is there anything in that requisition backlog from Brainstorm?" Wheeljack demanded from the room in general as he slid over on the couch to make room for Jazz.

"Um…yes." Elita looked curious. "There's three of them. Did you want to look them over?"

Wheeljack's indicators flashed a dull red-violet as contempt leaked into his expression. "Primus, no! Just go ahead and deny them and save yourself the trauma."

"Now Wheeljack," Elita shook her head chidingly, "be reasonable. I know you and he have your professional differences, but—"

"Is it for heptanitrocubane?"

Elita stared down at her pad, then gave Wheeljack a level look. "What is he doing?"

"He wants to use it in a new weapon."

"Oh. Well, that's not so…"

"He found a way to make heptanitrocubane crystals survive as a high-speed projectile."

"…I'm going to regret asking, but go ahead. "

Wheeljack sat his datapad aside and crossed his arms. "I developed HNC last century. I do not exaggerate when I say that it is one of—if not _the most_ —volatile substances on Cybertron. It can be used as the accelerant in a thermonuclear reaction. Brainstorm got a hold of some at Kimia and found a way to stabilize it long enough to be fired in projectile form. Then he built a chaingun. The chaingun fires at a rate of 1,000 rounds an astrosecond. He used the HNC as ammo in the chaingun. _Brainstorm_ made a _chaingun_ that fires off _miniaturized thermonuclear warheads_."

There was an appalled silence.

Wheeljack's expression fell somewhere between weary and just plain _done_ as he continued on. "Brainstorm is currently explaining himself—yet again—to the Ethics Committee. In the meantime, he's not allowed access to anything more volatile than water."

"Water? That's a bit…drastic, don't you think?" Ironhide asked.

Wheeljack's optics dimmed. "You _do_ know what Brainstorm gets up to, don't you?"

" _Primus."_ Red Alert muttered.

"Has nothing to do with what that mech produces, believe me." Wheeljack glanced over at Jazz, who had made himself comfortable and was scanning through his allotment of Prowl's backlog. "How is he?"

Jazz frowned. "Down and out. I knocked him a good one." He looked down at his datapad, studiously ignoring the looks that statement earned him.

[He's recharging?]

Jazz busied himself trading a few assignments with Ironhide before relying to Elita's private comm.

[Yeah. I kinda laid him out. I figured that it would be the easiest way to get him into recharge since he wasn't seeing reason. I…slag. I almost regret it. He immediately went into a processor-loop, and then an out-and-out flux-terror. I patched myself in when I realized it was a processor –loop, and stayed for the show.]

Elita considered him over the top of her pad for a second, then looked back down. [I figured dreaming, but hadn't thought things had degraded so far.]

[Holy slag, 'Lita. If _I_ knew all I was going to be getting out of recharge were maybe five breems of rest and a no-holds-barred graphic demonstration of what happens when a rampaging combiner team with no morals or boundaries gets at a batch of helpless sparklings, _I'd_ go head-first into a stim-cube, too.]

[ _Primus._ ] Elita shuddered inwardly. They'd found the video of Bruticus' rampage through the Youth Sector and Crystal Gardens. Red Alert had been appalled to discover that the footage he'd salvaged had been viewed by Prowl. He'd thought it would be seen to by Jazz or Ultra Magnus—the last thing anyone had expected, from Optimus on down, was for Prowl to remain on active duty.

[Ratchet's gonna kill me when he eventually finds out, but I did some rudimentary hacking into Prowl's processor. Just enough to force an actual data purge so I could try and stop the processor-loop. I would've done more if I could, but deeper than that and I could've triggered his defenses and wound up shredding _both_ our processors. He's getting some actual honest-to-goodness recharge at the moment.]

[Which means he gets to wake up and deal with the joys of a stim-crash.] Elita sent him the mental equivalent of a sigh. [We giving in and bringing Ratchet in on this?]

Jazz didn't reply for a long moment, weighing their options. They'd bluffed Prowl into standing down without actually _filing_ a 1080, and Magnus hadn't gone to Prime yet, thankfully. Nor would he, according to his last message, so long as Elita and Jazz got Prowl back in line before the situation devolved further. The only problem was that a stim-run meant withdrawal, which more than likely meant more dreams, in Prowl's case. The only one guaranteed to be able to put a stop to the dreaming was Ratchet. The thing was, dealing with Ratchet ran the risk of a data trail that ended with one tactician _actually_ kicked out of his position, and the resultant decimation of the command chain. Fragging High Command. He was going to have to put his head together with Red and figure out what to do with that band of useless power-hungry slag-heaps.

[Is there a way to keep Ratchet from filing a report?]

[Nope.]

Jazz was quiet for another long moment. [You and I both know Ratchet has little to no tolerance for High Command. Couldn't we-]

[No. Ratchet wouldn't be Ratchet if he quibbled on protocol.]

[Well, I guess that means we're going to be tampering with medical records, then.]

[That's a high-crime, you know.]

[You going to put your foot down?]

[Are you?]

[Nope.]

[So, before we go prancing off into felony-land, why don't we just try seizing the report?]

[Because Ratchet can smell politicking halfway across Cybertron. He won't stand for it if either of us tries anything. He's not exactly forgiven us for last time.]

Last time? Elita thought back, trying to remember what she could have done to earn Ratchet's ire, then sighed as her memory supplied the answer: Vesper Theta. The first casualty in quiet war between their cadre and High Command. Vesper Theta had been a nasty piece of work, concerned only with his own survival and status. He'd been one of the senators that fully supported the caste system—so much so that he'd tried to enforce that same system on the Autobot forces. It had been annoying to begin with, but when the mech had gone so far as to reassign the bots under their own command—namely those bots that would have been considered unskilled or even casteless under the old system—to the mines or factories, they'd decided enough was enough. They'd been tossing around the idea of assassination, but had been reluctant to cross the line into active hostility.

Then came the first attack on Iacon. Most of High Command had made it to safety before the Decepticons had even breached the outskirts of the city-state, but Vesper Theta had been on the Iacon Speedway when the Decepticons attacked, and had been badly wounded when the Decepticon Seekers slagged the Speedway to the Pit and back. Jazz and Elita had been overseeing evacuation and organization of the ground forces when the news that Vesper Theta was injured hit the network.

Jazz had immediately intercepted two medics who'd been prepared to go to the ruins of the Speedway to tend to Vesper Theta, and ordered them to remain with the first response teams handling the civilian and military casualties. She'd overheard, and stepped in to spin them a lovely little story about not being able to spare an escort and it being too dangerous for medics to go near the Speedway to ease their minds while Jazz quietly ordered Mirage to see to Vesper Theta.

Mirage had returned with a greyed out frame in tow and a spark-breaking story about just not being able to get to the poor mech in time. No one had thought twice about it. Except Ratchet. Ratchet had the uncanny ability to sniff out Jazz's slag, and after reviewing the med reports from the first responders and entirely unmoved attitudes of the senior officers present, he'd put two and two together and promptly ripped she and Jazz a new one, ending with a rather virulent diatribe about what he would do to them if they dared use medical as a staging ground for their maneuvering again.

Granted, this wasn't quite as dire as letting a member of High Command leak out in the rubble when even the most basic first aid could have saved him, but Ratchet was distrustful of their intentions when it came to medical unless it was mission related or involved them directly. And rightfully so. If they showed up and even hinted that they were after that report…yeah. That was going to be an ugly scene.

[Well, what if it's not us? He might not go on the defensive if someone else requests the report.]

Jazz mused over Elita's suggestion. [Yeah, but it's not like we've got a wide selection of bots that would actually have need for the report, to say nothing of the seniority to overrule him if he doesn't throw in with us.]

[This is such a ridiculous situation. It would all be so simple if we didn't have to worry about High Command.]

{One of these cycles…] Jazz broke that train of thought off. Too soon, too dangerous for that kind of thinking. But later, when they hopefully got things stable enough that High Command wasn't so necessary? Yeah…he was going to have a long think about what was and wasn't necessary to the Autobot cause anymore. But that was the future, and his immediate concern was protecting Prowl's health and position—Prowl's entire function revolved around the Autobot Cause, especially with Praxus gone. Primus knew that if High Command succeeded in removing Prowl, it would be just like they'd killed him.

[I know.] And she did. For all Jazz worried about what High Command would do to Prowl if given any sort of opening, she worried more about what would happen to Optimus if Prowl were removed. Because if those fraggers managed to remove Prowl, they would immediately turn to getting rid of the rest of them. They wouldn't be able to do much to her because she was _bonded_ to Optimus, but it would be just her against them, and not an entire group dedicated to not letting them turn Optimus into another Sentinel Prime.

And they could. Sentinel Prime had been a good mech, once, as honorable and noble as one could hope for with any Prime, but he'd listened more to the Senate than his own spark, and it had been his downfall as they'd corrupted him more and more into a twisted reflection of their own greedy selfishness. Sentinel had been a stubborn thing, considerable more so than Optimus, and he'd eventually fell. Optimus meant well, but she didn't give a bolt for his chances without their cadre to offset High Command's negativity.

Scrap it all. They could just see who wanted to throw in with them on this little venture, then figure out how to make it work. Elita tossed her data-pad aside. "Alright gang. Show of hands. Who wants to screw over those batch of crusty afts in High Command?"

She and Jazz watched as everyone's hand went up.

"Who doesn't mind torqueing Ratchet off in the process?"

Everyone's hand went back down except for Ironhide and Wheeljack. Wheeljack's hand dropped to half its original height. "How torqued are we talking? Like, will I be needing to leave Iacon for a while?"

"Oh, definitely."

"I'm out." Ironhide dropped his hand. "I _just_ got back, and with a few deserters and new recruits in tow. I can't leave the base anytime soon, not even to save my own aft."

Wheeljack's indicators pulsed a solid, determined red before he finished turning over whatever thought was in his processor and finally spoke. "I want a Favor. Completely open, no terms, no expiration."

Jazz and Elita exchanged looks.

Wholesale class uprising and planetary civil war being what it was, one of the first things to occur was total economic collapse. The markets crashed faster than a city-former attempting flight, the banks failed spectacularly seemingly overnight, and Cybertronian currency inflated to outrageous proportions before promptly imploding. Where once Cybertronian currency exchanged 1:1 on the galactic shanix, rates had finally bottomed out somewhere around 1,000:1 and were dwindling. The only thing of real value these days were energon, munitions, mineable resources, and Favors—the I.O.U. in its full glory. The previous three items were hard to come by and, almost always controlled by one faction or another.

Personal wealth at the end of the day was determined by how many cubes of energon you had in your subspace, the quality and quantity of your weapons and ammo, and how many favors you owed, and were owed in returned. Favors actually tended to be more valuable than any physical resource because of the raw potential they represented. Why trade a Favor in for a cube of energon or a shiny new weapon when you could instead use it as a means to extort more valuable things from a bot, or trade it off a Favor to someone else in return for lesser Favors from a variety of sources.

Getting a Favor from an officer—especially an open-ended Favor from one ranked as highly as Elita or Jazz—was the equivalent of hitting Jackpot on one of the slot machines of Monacus: a feat of such improbability as to be considered well and truly impossible, falling somewhere between Megatron and Optimus kissing and making up and Unicron returning as an emissary of love and justice.

Bots longed for those precious words. An easy-going "Do me a solid?" from Jazz or an amused, "Any takers?" from Chromia were sheer poetry. An "I got ya later" from Ironhide a jealously guarded bauble. Red Alert's "I'll take care of you" was a dream and Wheeljack's "I need a hand" a blessing. The rank and file fantasized about Ratchet saying, "I need a favor." The greenest recruit would charge a combiner team head-on for an open-ended Favor from Elita or Magnus, and they'd arm-wrestle Unicron for one from Prowl. There was a legend forming that Mirage had earned a Favor from Prime himself, and his comrades were torn between raw jealously and frank amazement because _what had Mirage had to do to_ get _it!?_

"Frag no."

Wheeljack wasn't surprised in the least. Jazz was Director of Special Operations, and the kind of Favor he was good for carried some serious fragging weight behind it. He couldn't afford to give away the kind of Favor Wheeljack was angling for. He glanced over at Elita, who mulled it over for a few moments then nodded.

"Okay."

Jazz turned to face Elita with an incredulous look on his face. "You've got to be joking."

"No. I already owed him one for the care package he sent the last time my squad was stationed at Altihex, and another from that bailout at Perihex." Elita crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat, making herself comfortable. "Wipe those two off your slate and throw in on this one, and you've got your Favor."

Wheeljack winced. He'd been holding on to those two for over an orn, hoping for just the right time to cash them in. Adding them towards the accumulation of a better Favor was a good move, but still…ouch. Wheeljack sighed and set his own data-pad aside. "Deal."

"You lucky fragger." Jaz shook his head in admiration and inclined his head toward the door. "Everyone who doesn't want to end up liable to Ratchet needs to clear out now."

"You're helping?" Wheeljack asked as the room emptied. Red Alert's camera drone skittered over to Jazz, who plucked it up and placed it in his lap. "Of course. You're just not getting a Favor of that caliber out of me."

"And you, Red?"

Red Alert's hologram flickered back to life. "Ratchet's patient records are stored on one of my secure networks. You'll need me if you want access to them. Jazz? This squares us for last decacycle."

"Fair enough. Let's talk business, 'Jack."

 

* * *

 

Ratchet scooted his chair away from Prowl's berth and pinned the other three occupants of the room with a truly foul look.

"I've managed to undo the processor loops, and he's going to be on medical-grade energon for the next metacycle, but he'll be fine. Miserable because he's still going to feel the withdrawal, but fine. We'll call that one a lesson learned. _Now_ , do one of you want to explain to me why I had a stim-addled Praxian halfway to a processor meltdown on my hands?"

"Um….no? Not in particular, to be honest."

Wheeljack wilted under Ratchet's sneer and Elita's lips quirked in slight amusement before she buried it beneath her usual calm exterior.

"Here." Jazz tossed a woefully light box of stims to Ratchet, and the medic took in missing contents.

"You _didn't_ —"

"Frag no!" Jazz denied quickly. "That was all Prowl."

"Humph. Idiot." Ratchet muttered, though his voice lacked much of its earlier vitriol. It was clear that out of everyone involved, Prowl was still in his good graces. That was probably only because he was also technically injured, and Ratchet liked perfectly hale and healthy victims. "Well, I'm not getting any answers out of that one anytime soon, so _someone_ better start talking."

The three of them fell silent; they all knew that this conversation was coming, but they hadn't decided who was going to bite the proverbial bullet. Jazz stayed stubbornly quiet, as did Elita .Wheeljack eventually broke first, singing his little spark out. By the time he finally wound down, Jazz was giving the engineer a little glare of his own. He'd known Wheeljack would spill first—Ratchet was closer to Wheeljack then he or Elita and would know how to push the engineer's buttons until he got his answers with little to no trouble—but _still_. Jazz hadn't expected to be thrown under the transport _quite_ so thoroughly.

Ratchet's glare turned poisonous as he processed the whole sordid affair. "Prowl I'll deal with once he's recovered, but you three…" He actually managed to loom over all of them, no matter that he was the only one sitting. "Keep your political maneuvering **out**. _**Of. My. Medbay**_."

Wheeljack shrugged. "This isn't the medbay, Ratch."

Of them all, only Elita didn't flinch when the medic slammed his fist down on the berth.

"Semantics! It doesn't change the fact you all were more concerned with protecting Prowl's position than getting him medical attention!"

"Not fair, doc." Elita shifted from her spot on the door to stand up straight as she finally weighed in on the conversation. "We didn't know the full extent of what was going on until last megacycle, and then we were mostly concerned with getting Prowl out of his office so we could actually help him."

"You could've just sent him to me."

"Like he'd actually go." Jazz muttered dourly.

Elita jumped back in when Ratchet opened his mouth for a no doubt scathing comment. "Look Ratchet, even _if_ we'd managed to convince him to do that, do you think letting Iacon get a good look at him in this state is wise? That the refugees need to see just how bad off their Lord Marshall is?"

"That's still politics." Ratchet grumbled.

"Can you honestly tell us High Command wouldn't seize that opportunity to undermine Prowl?" Jazz threw his hands up in frustration. "They'd ruin the mech, and then turn on the rest of us— _including you_! By the time they got done, we'd be out on our afts and they'd be halfway to turning Optimus into another Sentinel Prime!'

Ratchet's expression darkened. He didn't like High Command any more than the rest of them, especially after having felt the effects of some of their selfish greed, but he preferred more of a "live and let live" ideology than the outright hostility the rest of his comrades tended to harbor. To Ratchet, they were no different than the sleazy Directors that had run Iacon General before the war and forever seemed to be more concerned with their own wealth and reputation than actually saving lives. " _Believe me_ , I have **plenty** to say to High Command in my report, too."

Wheeljack braced himself for the explosion as he recognized his cue. "About that report, Ratch…"

"What?"

It was a both a question and a threat, and it took everything in Wheeljack not to shift so that he was slightly behind Jazz. Jazz lightly bumped him with his elbow in a show of support, sensing his reluctance. No intelligent being deliberately provoked Ratchet, which is exactly what they were doing. Well what Wheeljack was doing, though he didn't doubt that Ratchet would have them all suffering for it by the end.

"I'm officially confiscating it."

Ratchet's expression could've stripped hull plating. "You. **WHAT**?"

Not for the first time, Wheeljack wondered why Jazz or Elita hadn't simply used their own authority, had in fact asked just that. His explanation had boiled down to little more than a convoluted attempt to avoid alerting High Command to a cover-up and what Wheeljack suspected was an attempt to not end up directly in Ratchet's bad graces. Wheeljack had established precedent of confiscating med reports when it involved experimental devise to redact information for security.

Primus take him now.

Ratchet's voice was mild but so very deadly when he spoke again. "Jack, you aren't following in those two's footsteps and getting your politicking mixed up in my medbay, are you?"

"Yeah." Wheeljack shuddered at Ratchet's frown. "Look, I'm sorry, but it's necessary."

"Okay." Ratchet stood up and gave the three of them the fiercest glare he could muster. "Okay, _fine_. You and High Command can play your games, but the first time it affects one of my patients or hampers my work—"

"Now Ratch—"

The medic made an angry gesture, cutting Jazz off. "Save it, I don't care! What I _do_ care about is that this is the second time you've turned medical into a tool for your own agenda. Last time a mech _died_ , and Primus frag it all, I _know_ you orchestrated it! I don't know what burns my aft more—you three pulling this stunt, or High Command for being a batch of rotten fraggers and making it necessary. It doesn't even matter anyway, because next time—and there'd better not **be** a next time— _I'm_ getting involved, and I swear to Primus you'll all _**rue**_ the cycle."

If he could have slammed the door, he would have. But all that marked his dire exit was a soft hydraulic hiss of the door controls.

The three conspirators held each other's gaze for a long time, then Wheeljack sighed, his helm indicators dim. "I'm a dead mech."

 

* * *

 

Prowl came back on-line slowly, his HUD scrolling through a veritable sea of error logs and system reports. He'd ignored them as long as possible before finally succumbing to recharge, and now he was forced to endure the torturously slow process. More horrifying was the medical notation that accompanied each one.

Idiot. This is why you don't consume a box of stims.

Aft. Did you think none of this was a cause for concern?

Moron.

Stupid slag-heap.

You and I are going to have words.

Something akin to fear stirred inside him. Ratchet had worked on him then. That meant Ratchet knew _everything,_ and judging from the diatribe accompanying his boot cycle, the medic was far from pleased. Three breems later and he was fully on-line. A medical notation popped up on his HUD as he shifted aching limbs.

STAY PUT, OR PRIMUS HELP YOU, YOU'LL REGRET IT.

Prowl laid still for a moment longer, wondering which was worse: patiently waiting alone with his thoughts until Ratchet deigned to appear, or go directly against medic's orders.

He sure as Pit wasn't prepared to deal with the fierce self-recrimination just waiting for a chance to flare up, and he was fragged either way, so what good did listening to Ratchet really do for him?

Prowl stood up.

When his vision finally cleared, he was on his knees, staring at a pool of half-digested energon. What in Primus' name had just happened?! He'd stood and all of his senses had revolted, and he was left dizzy and disoriented, his tanks roiling and processor aching.

Primus.

Prowl took a few breems to orient himself and when he felt a bit more sure about actually _standing_ he got up and cleaned up the mess he'd left. When that was done, he looked around his room, frowning as he realized that his datapad—always kept on his desk—was gone, as was his computer. He didn't doubt that Elita or Jazz was responsible for that one. Both of them were bold enough to do it. He'd be lucky if they hadn't actually locked him out of the system. Jazz would, and with little to no hesitation. Elita _might not_ , provided he stayed in line, but she might have been pushed past her tolerance already.

He shied away from mentally replaying the confrontation in the hallway. This whole thing was just a bit too raw and embarrassing to contemplate just yet. With no work, it left his processor idle, and his thoughts began to turn toward Praxus before he mentally recoiled from that with a shudder. He…he just couldn't deal with that, yet. He couldn't go back into that dark hole he'd been stuck in when news of Praxus' fall had first reached him. Wasn't ready to dwell on the bleak horror of genocide and his complete and total _failure._ He'd had _one. job._

Yeah, he wasn't doing this. Obviously being alone with his thoughts was masochism at its finest. He had to get out of there, had to distract himself somehow. He wanted to check on Smokescreen, but no doubt the mech had enough problems of his own without adding Prowl to the mix. Still, he didn't doubt that the others had kept Smokescreen in the proverbial loop. He transmitted his brother a quick message informing him that he was feeling better so the mech would stop worrying about _him_ at least, then palmed his door open.

Nothing happened.

The fraggers had locked him in.

Prowl didn't even bother to hide his efforts, just hacked his door and let the security alert go to…Ratchet, Prowl realized as he studied the records. The medic was going to have a few choice words about that, no doubt.

He needed to get somewhere calming where he could distract himself in peace before Ratchet—or anyone else—came calling. He settled on the Hall of Records after a moment of tossing various locales around in his processor. The officer's mess was plain stupidity, and he doubted Red would let him in the security center. All of his cadre were liable to turn up in any of the usual places he went, which made things difficult. All that was really left was…the Hall of Records! Out of the way of everyone and everything. Peace, and maybe he could distract himself with some historical texts before Ratchet came to claim his helm…

 

* * *

 

Prowl halted as the massive doors to the Hall of Records closed behind him, leaving him face to face with one of the most revered members of their society, sitting ever as always at a simple but well-made desk, his Quill moving steadily over a staggeringly massive codex that Sentinel Prime had once quipped reached back to Cybertron's sparking.

The elderly mech idly stroked the thin wire filaments of his mustache and beard as he wrote, the neatly braided facial growths testament to the eons under his proverbial belt. It took scores of centuries and precise grooming for a bot to form any sort of facial growth, and scores more to reach anything remotely resembling what Alpha Trion had developed; but then, he'd long suspected the ancient chronicler had been sparked back when the original Thirteen walked Cybertron-if he wasn't one of them himself. Certainly, Sentinel had seemed to hold a particular reverence for Alpha Trion, no matter their arguments, and even Optimus held his one-time mentor in the highest esteem, far past what might be excused by familiarity.

Feeling very much as if he was intruding and suddenly, oddly ashamed? Apprehensive? Prowl turned and would have exited back through those same doors, but halted as a stately baritone seemed to wash over his armor and straight through to his very spark.

"You have always been welcomed here, Prowl. Have things changed so much between us?"

Prowl bowed deeply at the mech who had first welcomed him to Iacon when he had just barely upgraded into his adult frame, ages upon ages ago.

"Of course not, Alpha Trion. I just..." Prowl's door panels hitched in irritation as he found himself in the rare circumstance of being lost for words.

What, precisely could he say to Alpha Trion that wasn't utterly pitiful? 'I was looking for a quiet place to hide since I might have had a tiny breakdown and was summarily removed from my office?' 'I'm too stressed to meditate, but I dare not recharge because I know what I'll see when I dream?' 'I'm too ashamed to be in anyone's presence, especially yours?' All of it little more than self-indulgent whining, but nonetheless all he seemed to be capable of.

All of it true.

How...disgusting.

"You are very weary, young Prowl." Alpha Trion said somberly as he stood up from his desk, laying Quill and Covenant aside for a rare moment. The movement was halting, joints and gears emitting little noises of distress-a tell-tale sign of his advanced age-but stand he did. Prowl moved to assist, cringing inwardly as he realized he was just barely more agile than the ancient.

"Sometimes I fear I will fade away at that desk." Alpha Trion murmured to himself before turning back to his guest. "But not for a while yet. Why is it then, that one scarcely a fraction of my age seems as if he will beat me to the Well?"

"It has not gone well with me, Alpha Trion." Prowl replied quietly, still unsure of what-if anything-could even be said for himself.

"I have optics, youngling. They still function well enough. These recent times have been trying for all of us." Alpha Trion's stern tone gentled as he looked over the tactician. "Levitacus told me you had not attended any of the formal grievings or remembrances; it is apparent you have had no need of them-I can read the loss in every bit of you."

Prowl buried a wince before it could form. "You have encountered the Venerable Ones, then?" Levitacus was the oldest of all the Praxian Elders, and he did not doubt that he had long been judged and found wanting by their august group.

"Many times; the combined historical records of Praxus are a daunting thing to maintain. They wished to make use of a scribe, as well as the Hall's recording capabilities. I was glad for the opportunity, if not the cause." Alpha Trion moved forward, heading deeper into the Hall of Records and obviously expecting Prowl to follow. "They all have inquired multiple times about you; the absence of their Lord Marshall has not escaped their notice."

Prowl winced internally at the gentle chide. "I….did not think the survivors would be glad of my presence, given the way I failed them."

Alpha Trion made a disgusted noise. "Failed them? That there are even survivors at all speaks to your dedication and skill. Praxus has long been Marked. It is only because you stood as barrier that it was not overrun sooner." The wizened ancient stopped in front of a secluded alcove that led out to the balconies of the Hall of Records." I suppose, however, that you will persist in castigating yourself unless you hear as much from the Elders themselves?"

Prowl stopped short. "I would not presume to trouble them with my cares, Alpha Trion."

"Would you, perhaps, allow one of them to trouble you with theirs?"

That he'd been snuck upon completely unawares was further testament to his compromised state. Prowl whirled around as the grave, deep voice washed over him, taking in the pale gold visage of the eldest Praxian. "Levitacus!" Prowl began to bow, only to be stopped by a heavy hand on his arm.

"I would not stand on such formalities with you, now or ever."

Prowl straightened, but still kept his gaze down as if he were a youngling expecting a scolding.

"Will you allow me to steal your guest for a while, Alpha Trion?"

"Of course, Levitacus. I was dropping him off for you, in fact." The ancient meddler easily capitulated, turning to walk back into the Hall of Records with a fond pat of Prowl's shoulder plating. The XO's look flittered through an odd mixture of betrayed, incredulous, and resigned before settling back in wary neutrality as he watched Alpha Trion stroll away.

"Come, Prowl. Walk with an old mech."

Levitacus slowly made his way through the alcove and onto the balcony overlooking the central courtyard of Iacon Alpha Prime, the repurposed palace-citadel of Zeta Prime. He stopped at the railing, gazing into the distant horizon, where a gray haze of smoke and ash marred the normally clear sky above what was once Praxus. Prowl made an odd noise beside him, but said nothing. Was it because he truly had nothing to say, or because he did not know where to begin?

Levitacus stroked at the fine, thin wires that comprised his own beard as he surreptitiously took in the form of his Lord Marshall. He had heard the faint stirring of rumor amongst the refugees in Iacon. 'The Lord Marshall was nowhere to be found'. 'Prowl had sequestered himself'. 'Prowl was setting his affairs in order before he sought the Well'. Seeing Prowl now, he could see what had begun the rumors amongst the survivors; Prowl looked like he was astroseconds away from just collapsing and letting his spark fade out; he'd seen the surviving half of a broken bond deteriorate much the same. Some of the Praxus survivors had also let themselves slip away and cross over into the Well, such was the strength of their grief. Levitacus could only hope that was not Prowl's intent; if only because Prowl's doing so would further influence even more of the remaining survivors towards the same.

If Prowl would not brave the conversation, then it fell to his hands.

His voice was quiet but strong, not so much shattering the silence as gently easing it away. "When the siege began in earnest, the sons and daughters of Praxus refused to let us take up arms and instead banished us to the safety of the Academy while they fought and burned and died. It is a cold thing, for a parent to survive their child; shameful for the old to live at the expense of the young. Is it displeasure with our going into hiding instead of joining the defense that stops you from seeking our company? Are you shamed to meet the gaze of a coward?"

Prowl balked, his face a study in disbelief as he finally met Levitacus' gaze. "That is absurd!"

Levitacus frowned at Prowl, his gaze burning straight through Prowl's plating. "Almost as absurd as the Lord Marshall blaming himself for not stopping a madmech's army roughly three times the size of any other in the galactic quadrant?"

Prowl shuddered, his door panels drooping low afterward in guilt. "My first duty as Lord Marshall has always been to the safety of Praxus. I saw Megatron's intent long before anyone other, but was unable to do anything about it. My one duty, and I failed."

Levitacus looked completely perplexed. "You…actually believe that?"

Prowl sighed, gesturing towards the fallen city. "How can I not? I've seen the influx of survivors, viewed every report and field update. It pains me to see my fellow Praxians and know that they expected better than what I could do for them, and as for the Venerable Ones…" Prowl forced himself to continue after a long pause. "I see the criticism in your optics, and it is a bitter meal."

"Criticism? We'd scarce caught but a glimpse of you since we arrived; it wasn't criticism, Prowl—we were worried. The others…" Levitacus shrugged eloquently. "Age has afforded us the right to blunt. We likely all but dissected you in the hallway to see how you were when we first arrived. You shut yourself away soon afterwards, with no contact with any of us. The popular rumor is that you had chosen to fade into the Well. Your absence has been keenly felt these recent cycles, and mecha will spin tales to excuse what they can't understand."

"Worried? For me?" Prowl wilted as Jazz's words came back to haunt him _. It's a fun little gift called Charge-Debt, Prowl. When you don't rest, it takes its toll. Your body degrades and takes the mind with it. You're irritable, paranoid and obviously not thinking properly-Primus only knows what mental horror you've concocted for yourself and then projected onto the rest of us!_

"How could we not?" Levitacus shook his head. "Your seclusion has done no one any favors, especially yourself. You cannot expect to stand alone against this sort of thing. No mech is an island unto himself."

Guilt churned in Prowl's spark, and unable to quite deal with the sickening feeling, he fell back on the mantra that had formed from the sheer stubbornness to let himself be conquered by his own weakness. "I'm fine." He would be fine; he would acknowledge this as well and deal with it later, when he could spare the time. For now he had to be fine, so he was.

"No, you're not." Levitacus' optics dimmed. "I doubt anyone is, right now. And that's okay. This-"

"Is a waste of time!" Somewhere deep in his spark, Prowl was just as startled as Levitacus at the interruption— _no one_ interrupted an Elder, especially Levitacus. The transgression already committed—like so many others—Prowl pressed ahead, stubbornly refusing to let himself falter. What's said was said, he'd might as well finish. "This is war. These things happen, and dwelling on tragedy is unwise. Megatron is still out there, his Decepticons glutted on the kill and already casting their optics upon the next target. The war hasn't stopped, Levitacus! If I choose to spend what precious little time I have indulging in morose contemplations and over-emotional hysterics instead of doing what I must, then it will be Iacon next!" Prowl turned to fully face the distant ruins of Praxus, his gaze hardened. "Let those who have the time wallow in grief. I don't have the luxury of it—not now. Not ever."

"Ah. So this is how you choose to flee your problems." Levitacus gazed solemnly at Prowl, who went rigid at the accusation.

"I don't have any problems. Nothing is wrong with me." Says the mech who hadn't recharged in the last deca-cycle. Prowl forcibly ignored the small voice in the back of his mind that sounded more and more like a certain maddening saboteur.

Levitacus' gaze softened. "What is wrong, Lord Marshall, is that you persist in acting as if your entire world hasn't crashed down around you. It has, but instead of taking the time to let yourself grieve and heal from the blow you force yourself to carry on as though nothing ever happened. It takes its toll, as you no doubt have experienced."

Prowl sighed lowly, tired of what he felt was repeating himself and not even half-sure who he was trying to convince more. "I don't have time for that, not right now. I have to see to those of us that remain, and there is the war and my own responsibilities. I did what I could, but I wasn't there. I´m not one of the wounded or displaced…I´m not the one in pain."

Levitacus reached out a faded red hand, resting it on Prowl's shoulder. "Yes, Prowl...you are. It is the worst sort of arrogance to pretend otherwise; you have to stop carrying the weight of the whole world on your shoulder struts. It will only kill you that much quicker."

"I…don't know how. How do you move past something like this? How do you understand and accept evil at such a level?"

Levitacus looked at the young mech he had watched mature from a naïve rookie Enforcer to the indomitable Lord Marshall that had sheltered Praxus—and a dozen other city-states-from the brunt of the war for far, far longer than it'd had any right to.

"You don't. You should strive to never understand evil of that level, because understanding it means you're capable of it. You don't move past it, because moving past it means that you've forgotten the loss and impact of it. You keep it in its place, and when it rises up and gets to be too much for you? You lean, Prowl. You lean."

Prowl scoffed, but it was a soft, bitter thing lacking any sort of actual antagonism. "And who, exactly, am I to lean on?"

Levitacus stroked his beard in quiet contemplation. "Oh, I'd wager you've never lacked for options—you've just forgotten to look past the center of your own world far enough to see them, lately." The Praxian Elder laughed, a quiet, dry thing that all old and wizened beings seemed able to produce at a moment's notice at the foibles of the young and foolish. "But that's the beauty of it—the ones you can lean on are always there, like it or not."

Prowl shook his head. "They have their own issues and tasks; my slowing them down and becoming a burden on them does no one any favors."

"Who says you'd be a burden?"

"Wouldn't I?" Prowl asked dourly, his door wings twitching as his mood soured even more at the thought of what the others must be going through on his behalf.

"I'd think you'd be wise enough to let them decide that for themselves." Levitacus gave Prowl a sage nod, and turned to leave. "He's all yours, gentlemechs."

Prowl startled, whipping around to see Smokescreen and Jazz leaning against either side of the balcony's entrance as Levitacus made his way back inside, pausing only to clap Smokescreen gently on the shoulder and murmur an amused, "Alpha Maestro" to Jazz, who executed an elegant, respectful bow in his wake few would have suspected him capable of; and indeed, there were few sparks Jazz would deign to break out manners for anymore. However, long before he had been Autobot Jazz or even Cultural Investigator Jazz, he'd been Alpha Maestro Jazz, and no matter the guises he hid behind now, he would always be that to Levitacus.

"He's right, you know—you've been punishing yourself for something no one could have prevented."

"So I've heard." Prowl shifted aside to allow Smokescreen a spot next to him at the right, while Jazz settled back against the battlements in a comfortable leaning position, one foot braced against the opposite wall and the other planted firmly on the ground to keep him from sliding out of position.

"It bears repeating. Because, you know, you're an incredibly stupid aft sometimes." Prowl's flat glare was met by one of Jazz's shamelessly impudent grins, the one that could diffuse any and all ill-will in mere astroseconds.

Smokescreen huffed out a short laugh. "What Jazz means to say is that you had us worried about you."

"I apologize. It was not my intent."

"I know." Smokescreen agreed quietly, frowning as he stared across the expanse of Iacon and at the gray cloud that was the remains of Praxus off in the distance.

"Yeah…did you _really_ have to go and stare at it?" Jazz asked plaintively, deliberately poking a hole in the dampening mood before either of them could get too morose.

"Jazz!" Smokescreen chided with a shocked laugh.

"Smokescreen!" Jazz retorted, clearly gearing up for another irreverent comment.

Prowl tuned out the rest of their conversation, taking a moment to quietly study Smokescreen. He'd seen very little of his brother since the Fall—not that it was Smokescreen's fault—and hadn't had a chance truly see how he was doing. Definitely weary, Prowl decided, but nowhere near as bad off as he was. Smokescreen said nothing, but his door wings flicked upwards in a quick display of amusement as he opened a private comm between them.

[I'm holding up okay. You were the one that scared everybody, not me.]

Jazz's voice broke the quiet they'd lapsed into. "By the way, what possessed you to flagrantly ignore Ratchet's orders? Because there's better ways to go than enraged medic, if that's what you were after."

Prowl didn't flinch.

He didn't.

The biting chill that passed through his lines couldn't be denied, however. Ratchet was going to make his life pure misery, no doubt.

"Oh, you're a dead mech alright, but there's no sense in making yourself sniper bait."

Prowl hadn't been expecting the vocal summation of his thoughts. Glancing over his shoulder, he could make out the familiar form of the Autobot's Security Director coming through the entryway. Red Alert strode towards them with a shield drone hovering over his shoulder. The sleek white orb hummed softly, a thin blue sensor light constantly sweeping a full 360 degrees for incoming projectiles. Red Alert stopped behind Prowl, activating the drone's energy shield and settled himself against the wall in the spot Smokescreen had vacated earlier. There was a heavy hum of energy and a visible thick ripple in the air as the shield flared out and settled into place, encasing the front and sides of the balcony. "I'll never understand why you lot insist on baiting assassins, full out in the open with no sort of safeguards."

Smokescreen stared at the now stationary shield drone with disbelief. "Red? I seriously doubt there are currently assassins in Iacon Alpha Prime, especially in the middle of the interior courtyard."

Red Alert was hardly fazed, however. He couldn't go a metacycle without someone commenting on his protocols—but the order to actually change them never came. Worthless though they all were, even High Command understood the folly of interfering with his process—even if it was only because they were also reaping the benefits. "I'm sure you do, Smokescreen, and I'm sure the moment I assume otherwise will be quite the tragedy."

Jazz laughed. "Leave Red alone, Smokey. I like the gig he's got running. "

Red Alert preened at the endorsement. It didn't matter if he got one or not—but it was always nice to be appreciated. It wasn't like it was an easy job, anyway. He preferred to work from the viewpoint that everything was somehow compromised and build them up to a suitable level of operational security—it took a ridiculous amount of work to wring that level of efficiency out of any set-up. For the uninitiated, Red's protocols stank of paranoia and exaggerated problems, but the fact of the matter was once Red Alert declared something secured, it took an act of Primus to bypass his checks. The success rate of Decepticon infiltration had dropped 83% since he'd taken over Security & Intelligence, and from there he'd methodically pried apart every section of the Army until almost all Decepticon sympathizers and moles had been found and deal with. If there were any left, they were so deep under-cover they probably didn't even _know_ they weren't loyal Autobots, and Red Alert would be all over them the moment they decided otherwise.

Red refused to relax his measures or assume that things were truly secured; his philosophy was that complacency was the mortal enemy of security. That included assuming that his own measures couldn't be bypassed; to that point he'd installed enough active protocols all over the base instead of just at the security checkpoints that if a Decepticon _actually managed_ to infiltrate and survive the clearance grid, they'd be regretting it the rest of their (drastically shortened) life.

"That's right, Smokescreen; leave me alone or I might just forget to update your security tags; I did just upgrade the defense grid after all."

Jazz perked up at that announcement. "More scanners?"

"Turrets."

"Turrets?" Jazz's visor brightened. "Inside?"

"Lots and lots of turrets."

Jazz and Red Alert shared wicked grins, which prompted Smokescreen to shake his head at the most vicious members of their cadre.

"What if someone trips it accidentally?"

Red Alert shrugged. "That's what the security tags are for—they don't fire on up to date tags. I sent out a memo."

"And if they didn't read the memo? You can't just—"

"Never mind any of that, Smokescreen; how am I a dead mech, Red?" Prowl demanded.

"Ah! Here. I come bearing gifts." Red Alert produced a glowing blue cube of energon from his subspace. Medical grade energon. With a glyph carved into the container in Ratchet's precise hand: Slagger.

Ratchet definitely wasn't pleased with him, then.

"What happened? Did Ratchet run inventory?"

"Yeah, and shook down First Aid for answers." Jazz shook his head sadly. "Poor scraplet's probably too unnerved to even think straight right now."

"But to be fair, we sold you out first." Red Alert clarified. "We turned him loose on you while you were out, and Wheeljack hijacked the report because it involved "experimental engineering" and security locked it, at which point _Jazz_ appropriated it for Ops under the claim the "experimental engineering" might have applications in other Ops missions, and stashed it in Black Archives, so there's no way High Command's getting hold of it."

Prowl believed him. The Black Archives were the most secure vault that Ops had, and where Jazz stashed his nastiest, dirtiest, most classified material. The only person with access was Prime himself, and Prowl suspected that Jazz had coded most of—if not all—the material inside to self-destruct if Prime's passcode were ever used for entry because Optimus most certainly would _not_ approve of anything Jazz kept inside the vault.

Prowl grimaced. "I imagine Ratchet's none too pleased you tampered with his records."

Jazz made an ugly sound. "To put it mildly. Wheeljack's going to shuffle off to the Beta Chiron outpost and lay low for a while. Ratchet was _mad._ Still is.I'm honestly hoping he gets to you first—maybe he'll work off some of that killing urge he's been nursing before he turns on me and Elita."

Prowl shuddered as he remembered the medical alert that had gone off the instant he'd hacked his door. "How long do I have before Ratchet rears his head?"

Red Alert shrugged. "I told him I'd have to find you."

"So a few breems." Prowl grumped as he unsealed the vibrant blue energon cube.

"Well, possibly a joor, maybe even two. I haven't informed Ratchet I've found you yet."

Prowl lowered his cube incredulously. Red Alert was not one to thwart Ratchet so flagrantly.

Seeing the unspoken demand for an explanation, Red Alert quirked a brief smile. "No one—especially I—wants him go off anytime soon. At least, not before I barricade myself back in my security center. I think the only one not on his slag-list is Smokescreen, to be honest."

"Thank you?" Prowl ventured carefully.

"You are quite welcome, and may repay me by never putting me through such a situation again." Red Alert added, narrowing his gaze at Prowl.

"Same goes for the rest of us." Jazz chimed in.

"Noted." Prowl grimaced as discomfort washed over him. It would be a few cycles more before he'd work through the stim-run he'd been on and that particular reaction to energon faded.

[Prowl?] Jazz commed him, and there was a glint in his visor that Prowl caught when he glanced back at the saboteur, and he realized that if he said he wasn't Jazz would flat out loot the medbay if it came down to it, and frag what Ratchet had to say about it. Even Red Alert and Smokescreen were surreptitiously watching him now, and Prowl didn't doubt that the moment he said "I need" there would be a flurry of private comms and strategic maneuvering and his comrades would stand ready, poised for action as soon as he finished speaking. It was a familiar situation—he'd been in that same spot for all of them at one point or another. Was it honestly so surprising that they were prepared to do the same, now that it was his turn?

Prowl frowned to himself. Levitacus was right. Somewhere, in that dark pit he'd let himself fall into, he'd forgotten that he wasn't alone in this. The road ahead was going to be long and steep and bumpy, but it would be better for the company. And there _would_ be company...

The barest hint of a smirk, fleeting though it was, showed up on his face as he addressed their concern out loud. "Med-grade tastes like slag."

Smokescreen's engine revved in amusement, and they all seemed to settle back in on themselves.

Jazz shifted to make himself more comfortable, then moved up to Prowl's other side, ignoring Red's huff of disgust and muttered "Assassins fantasize about opportunities like this."

[You cool, mech?]

[…Maybe not entirely, but I know you have my back. All of you do. That…means a lot, right now.]

[And always will.] Jazz agreed easily.


End file.
